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mil ssEEifBias iiiii

SCHOOL OF EDUCATION
LIBRARY

TEXTBOOK COLLECTION

GIFT OF

THE PUBLISHERS

STANFORD N^p/ UNIVERSITY
LIBRARIES

Fhe reUU price of till* book u | .

SCHOOL READING BY GRADES

FOURTH YEAR

JAMES BALDWIN

HEW YORK.;. CINCINNATI. ^.CHICAGO
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY

DEPAETMENT OF EDnOATIOH
lELAS D STAHFOED JCSIOE OTrjIS:,

LIBRARY OF THE
LELAND STANFORD JR. UNIVERSITY.

OOPTKIGHT, 1897, BY

AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY.

80H. READ. FOURTH YEAR.
W. P. 3

PREFACE.

The paramount object of this book, no less than of the lower numbers
of the series, is to help the pupil to become a good reader. To be a good
reader, one must not only be able to pronounce all the words in a given
lesson, but he must have so thorough an understanding of the selection
to be read that he involuntarily makes the thoughts and feelings of the
author his own. An exercise in reading should, therefore, always be a
pleasure to thosawho participate in it. It should never in any sense be
regarded as a task. Children who like to read are pretty sure to become
good readers; and the easiest way to teach reading is to make every
recitation full of interest and a source of delight. But this is not all.
Careless habits must be avoided. Distinct enunciation and correct pro-
nunciation must be insisted upon and secured. It is not enough that the
reader himself understands and is interested. He must make his hearers
understand also, and that without effort, and he must give them such
pleasure that they shall not soon become weary of listening to him.

The lessons in this volume have been prepared and arranged with a
view towards several ends : to interest the young reader ; to cultivate a
taste for the best style of literature as regards both thought and expres-
sion ; to point the way to an acquaintance with good books ; to appeal to
the pupil's sense of duty, and strengthen his desire to do right ; to arouse
patriotic feelings and a just pride in the achievements of our country-
men ; and incidentally to add somewhat to the learner's knowledge of
history and science and art.

The illustrations will prove to be valuable adjuncts to the text. Spell-
ing, defining, and punctuation should receive special attention. Difficult
words and idiomatic expressions should be carefully studied with the aid
of the Word List at the end of the volume. Persistent and systematic
practice in the pronunciation of these words and of other difficult com-
binations of sounds will aid in training the pupils' voices to habits of
careful articulation and correct enunciation.

While literary biography can be of but little, if any, value in culti-
vating literary taste, it is desirable that pupils should acquire some slight
knowledge of the writers whose productions are placed before them for
study. To assist in the acquisition of this knowledge, and also to serve
for ready reference, a few pages of Biographical Notes are inserted
towards the end of the volume. The brief rules given on page 6 should
be learned at the beginning, and carefully and constantly observed.

CONTENTS.

▲OAPTED FROM PAOB

Daniel Webster's First Speech 7

Bisons and Buffaloes 12

Fortune and the Beggar Ivan Kriloff 19

The Piper's Song William Blake ... 22

Two Surprises 23

Freaks of the Frost Hannah F. Gould . . 25

Going East by sailing West 26

Daybreak Henry W. Longfellow . 44

Turtles on the Amazon Mayne Reid .... 45

How the Thrushes crossed the Sea . . Henry C, McCook . . 49

TheHaymakers— Old Style 65

The Haymakers — New Style 58

The Reaper and the Flowers .... Henry W. Longfellow . 62

The Day is done Henry W. Longfellow 65

The Declaration of Independence 67

Little Jean FranQoise Coppee ... 74

Henry's Breakfast 81

Woodman, spare that Tree George P. Morris ... 87

A Leap for Life George P. Morris ... 88

The Stagecoach Thomas Hughes ... 90

The English Slave Boys in Rome . . . Edward A. Freeman . 96

The Uprising — 1775 Thomas Buchanan Read 101

Sif's Golden Hair From ''The Story of Siegfried'' 105

The Meeting of the Ships Thomas Moore . . . 120

Those Evening Bells Thomas Moore . . . 121

Searching for Gold and finding a River 122

Beavers at Home William Bingley . . . 128

ADAPTED FROM PAGV

The Iron Horse From"' The Horse Fair '' 132

Little Bell Thomas Westwood . . 136

The Little Man 139

Our Country 144

Something about Cotton 145

Maggie TuUiver and the Gypsies . . . George Eliot .... 149

The Fairies of the Caldon Low .... Mary Howitt .... 163

The Good Samaritan 167

The Concord Hymn Balph Waldo Emerson . 168

The Two Offas Edward A. Freeman . . 169

The Star- Spangled Banner Francis Scott Knj . . 176

America Samuel F. Smith . . . 178

The Prodigal Son From " The Gospel of St. Luke'' 179

How Duke William made Himself King . Charles Dickens ... 181

Biographical Notes 193

Word List 196

Feopbr Names Pronounced 208

The publishers desire to acknowledge their obligations to the per-
sons named below for their generous permission to use selections from
their copyright works in this volume: The Century Company, for the
extract from '*The Horse Fair"; Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., for
the selections from Henry W. Longfellow and Ralph Waldo Emerson ;
The J. B. Lippincott Company, for the poem by Thomas Buchanan
Read ; Dr. Henry C. McCook, for the story of which he is the author ;
and Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons, for the selection from **The Story
of Siegfried."

TO THE YOUNG LEARNER.

To be able to read well, there are several simple rules which you should
remember and try to observe : —

Before attempting to read any selection aloud, read it to yourself in order

that you may acquaint yourself with its difficulties.
If there is any part of it that you do not comprehend, read it again and

try to get at its meaning.
Study to understand every peculiar expression and every difficult word.
From the Word List at the end of this volume, or from a dictionary, learn

the meaning of every difficult word.
Practice reading aloud to yourself at home.
Try to discover and correct your own faults.
Be sure to pronounce, clearly and properly, every syllable and every

word.
If any combination of sounds is hard to articulate, practice pronounc-
ing it until you can speak it properly and witliout effort.
In reading aloud try to read in the same natural tones that you use in

talking. Be careful to avoid all strained, harsh, or discordant tones.
Remember that good reading is only conversation from the book, and

that it should always give pleasure to both the reader and his hearers.
Avoid all careless habits of expression.
It will be easier to read well if you sit or stand with your head erect and

your shoulders thrown well back ; then you can breathe easily,

freely, and naturally, and it will not be hard to speak each word

clearly and properly.
Try so to render each thought or passage as to interpret, in the most

natural and forcible manner, the meaning intended by the author.
Study to appreciate the beauty, the truthfulness, the appropriateness of

that which you are reading.
Ask yourself constantly : "Am I reading this so well that my hearers are

pleased and interested ? ''
Try to improve every day.

SCHOOL READiisra

FOURTH YEAR.

-«>oX>»o<»-

DANIEL WEBSTER'S FIRST SPEECH.

On a farm among the hills of New Hampshire,

there once lived a little boy whose name was Daniel

Webster. He was a tiny fellow, with jet-black hair

and eyes so dark and wonderful that nobody who

5 once saw them could ever forget them.

He was not strong enough to help much on the

farm ; and so he spent much of his time in playing

in the woods and learning to know and love the

trees and flowers, and the harmless wild creatures

10 that lived among them.

But he did not play all the time. Long before
he was old enough to go to school, he learned to
read; and he read so well that everybody was
pleased, and no one grew tired of listening to him.
16 The neighbors, when driving past his father's
house, would stop their horses in the road, and call
for Dannie Webster to come out and read to them.
At that time there were no children's books, such

as you have now; and there were but very few
books of any kind in the homes of the New Hamp-
shire farmers. But Daniel read such books as he
could get; and he read them over and over again
till he knew all that was in them. In this way he b
learned a great deal of the Bible so well that he
could repeat verse after verse without making a mis-
take; and these he remembered as long as he lived.

Daniel's father was not only a farmer, but be was
a judge in the county court. He had great love for lo
the law, and he hoped that Daniel when he became
a man would be a lawyer.

It happened one summer that a woodchuck made
its burrow in the side of a hill
not far from Mr, Webster's house, is
On warm, dark nights it would
■■^■r--^^-- v^e—? come down into the garden and

'" ~ ' '■ eat the tender leaves of the cab-

bages and other plants that were growing there.
Nobody knew how much harm it might do in 20
the end.

Daniel and his brother Ezekiel made up their
minds to catch the little thief; but for a long time
it was too cunning for them. At last they built a
strong trap where the woodchuck would be sure to 2b
walk into it; and the next morning there he was.
^" "Here he is at last ! " cried Ezekiel. "Now, Mr.

Woodchuck, you've done mischief enough, and I'm
going to kill you."

But Daniel took pity on the poor beast. "No,
don't hurt him," he said. " Let us carry him over
6 the hills far into the woods, and let him go."

Ezekiel had not so tender a heart as his brother.
He was bent on killing the woodchuck, and laughed
at the thought of letting it go.

"Let us ask father about it," said Daniel.

10 And so they carried the trap, with the woodchuck

in it, to their father, and asked what they should do.

" Well, boys," said Mr. Webster, " we will settle

the question in this way. We will hold a court

right here. I will be the judge and you shall be the

16 lawyers ; and you shall each plead your case for or

against the prisoner."

Ezekiel opened the case. He told about the mis-
chief which the prisoner had done, and showed that
all woodchucks are very bad creatures and can not be
20 trusted. He said that a great deal of time and labor
had been spent in catching this thief, and that if
they should set him free he would be a worse thief
than before, and too cunning to be caught again.
He then went on to say that the woodchuck's skin
25 was worth a few cents ; but that, to make the most
of it, it could not be sold for half enough to pay for
the cabbage that had been eaten. "And so," he

said, " since this creature is only a thief and of more
value dead than alive, he ought to be put out of the
way at once."

Ezekiel's speech was a good one, and it pleased his
father very much. What he had said was true and i
to the point, and the judge could not think how
Daniel was going to make any answer to it.

Daniel began to plsad for the life of ths poor aninial.

But Daniel looked up into the judge's face, and be-
gan to plead for the life of the poor animal. He said :

" God made the woodehuck. He made him to live n
in the bright sunlight and the pure air ; to enjoy the
free fields and the green woods. The woodehuck
has as much right to life as any other living thing;
for God gave it to him.

" God gives us our food. He gives us all that we
have ; and shall we not spare a little dumb creature
that has as much right to his share of God's gifts as
we have to ours ? Yes, more ; the woodchuck has

6 never broken the laws of his nature or the laws of
God, as man often does.

" He is not a fierce animal like the wolf or the fox.
He lives in quiet and peace ; a hole in the side of a
hill, with a little food, is all that he wants. He has

10 harmed nothing but a few plants which he ate to
keep himself alive. He has a right to life, to food,
to liberty; and we have no right to say that he shall
not have them.

**Look at his soft, pleading eyes. See him tremble

15 with fear. He can not speak for himself, and this
ia the only way in which he can plead for the life
that is so sweet to him. Shall we be so selfish and
cruel as to take from him that life which God gave
him?"

20 By this time the tears had started in the eyes of

the judge. The father's heart was stirred within

him, and he felt that God had given him a son

whose name would some day be known to the world.

He did not wait for Daniel to finish his speech.

26 He sprang to his feet ; he dashed the tears from
his eyes, and cried out: "Ezekiel, let the wood-
chuck go!"

BISONS AND BUFFALOES.
I.
Not many years ago there lived on the grassy
plains of the West great herds of animals called
bufEaloes. In many ways they were like wild cattle,
but they were larger and stronger, and had never
been tame. They were not true bufEaloes, but n
bisons. Sometimes there were thousands of these
bisons in a herd. The largest herds were made up
of a great many small herds which came together at
certain times or places and then moved apart again.

When left to themselves, they wandered slowly lo
from place to place, eating the tall grass as they
went. In the early summer their
course was commonly toward the
north ; but when the days began
to grow shorter, they turned and w
made their way back toward the
south.

With their big heads and long,
thick manes, bisons have not a very pleasant look.
But they are not as fierce as you might think. Hut^e 20
as they are, they are timid animals. If they are let
alone, they are not likely to hurt any one. They
know their strength, but they use it only in taking
care of themselves.

Their bodies are not so clumsy as they seem. On
the plains they could move very quickly when they
tried, and they traveled very fast. When a great
herd of bisons was once set to going, nothing could

6 stop it. Over hilly and rocky country where a horse
could hardly walk, these animals would move at a
rapid rate. Did they come to a broad river ? They
would leap in and swim across. Those in front did
not dare to stop, for then they would be run over

10 by those that came behind.

Every herd was commonly followed by wolves.
These beasts were always on the lookout for any
weak or lame straggler that might fall behind, or
wander from the herd ; and woe to any little bison

15 that strayed too far from its mother's side.

When white people first came to this country, the
bison was the only animal of the ox kind that they
found. It lived then among the great woods as
well as on the prairies. But as the country became

20 settled, these timid animals fled farther and farther

west, trying to find some place where they could

live in peace and safety. Go where they would,

however, there was not much safety for them.

As long as there were bisons on the great plains,

25 the Indians of the West would not leave off their
wild, roving habits. They would rather hunt these
animals for food than do any kind of work. They

killed hundreds of bisons every year ; but the next
year there were hundreds of young bisons to take
the place of those that had been killed, and so the
herds were as large as ever.

In winter, hunters and Indians often had no other 5
meat than the dried flesh of the bison. It was pre-
pared by cutting the fresh meat into strips and hang-
ing these strips over a fire until they were quite hard
and almost black. It was very much like smoked
beef, and the Indians called it " pemmican." The lo
tongue and hump of a bison were the best parts.
White hunters would often kill the animals for these
parts alone, and then leave the rest of the body to
be eaten by the wolves. When railroads were built
across the plains, it was soon all over with the bisons, is

They were killed for their skins and their horns.
They were killed for mere sport and cruelty. Men
went from the cities to "hunt" them. They shot
them sometimes from the car windows. They killed
them, just to be killing, without any thought of the 20
suffering that was caused. The man who could shoot
the largest number of bisons in a day thought him-
self a great hero. So many were killed that in some
places the ground for miles was covered with the
dead bodies or the white bones of the poor beasts. 26

And so there are now no more great herds of
bisons. They are no longer known in the places where

they once roamed. Now and then you may see a
bison in a show or a menagerie ; and it is said that
there are two or three small herds in certain of the
great parks of our country. These are all. It is
6 likely that in a few more years not one of these
animals will be left alive in all the world.

The true buffalo is very different from the bison.
It is found in Africa and India and in the south
of Europe; but not in America. There are several

10 kinds of buffaloes, some wild and some tame. The
wild buffalo is a savage animal. He is so large and
strong that he is a match for almost any other animal.

These buffaloes, like the bisons
of our country, live in large herds.

IB They like to browse in marshy
ground where it is easy to find
plenty of water. They are very
fond of rolling in the mud. Some-
times they sink themselves until

20 the eyes and nose are all that can
mud.

In the southern part of Africa there lives another
kind of buffalo, called the Cape buffalo. The horns
of the Cape buffalo are large and long, sometimes

26 measuring five feet from tip to tip. Near the head

Hw Oftpa BnfiUo.

seen above the

they are so large that they cover the eyes, like the
visor of a cap. On this account, an old buffalo when
grazing is sometimes unable to see things just in
front of him. A hunter may walk safely in the
path before him, if he is careful to make no noise, b
and does not brush against the bushes as he passes
along.

The Cape buffalo is about as large as a common
ox, but a great deal stronger. It is the fiercest ani-
mal of its kind. It has often been known to hide lo
among the tall grass or underbrush, and then rush
suddenly out upon any passer-by.

This buffalo is not an easy animal to kill, for the
skin is so tough that it will often
turn aside a bullet. To shoot or.e i6
of these animals and fail to kill
it instantly is a dangerous thing
to do ; for a wounded buffalo is a
far more terrible foe than an un-
hurt one. In India tame buffaloes 20

Th« IndUa Bnfiblo.

are very common — as common as
cows and oxen in our country. They are used to
draw wagons, to carry burdens, and to do much of
the work of a horse on the farms. Sometimes, also,
the buffalo cow is useful for the milk which she gives. 2s
From this milk the people make a kind of blue butter
called ghee.

The care of the buffaloes belonging to a farm-
house is often intrusted to a small boy. In the
morning he climbs upon the back of the leader of
the herd and rides slowly out to the pasture fields

5 which are sometimes a long distance from the house.
The other cows, seeing their leader moving, fall
one by one into line, and with many groans and
grunts follow her along the oft-trodden path. When
at last the pasture is reached, the boy jumps from

10 the leader s back and turns her loose to graze. For
a while the herd is busy nipping the short grass,
moving slowly here and there among the hillocks
and stones, and always keeping close together.
The little herdsman, while keeping an eye

15 upon the herd, amuses himself in a variety of
ways. He whistles and sings. He makes
little baskets of twigs and long grass in

, . , . . , , A Herdsman.

which to imprison grasshoppers, or perhaps

a green lizard or two. And so he contrives to

20 make the earlier part of the long day pass with
some comfort and pleasure.

As for the buffaloes, when the noon sun grows
hot, they seek out some marshy place where there
is water and plenty of mud. There they lie down

25 and roll until they have covered themselves with
a thick coating of slime. Some of them bury them-
selves in the mud until only their heads can be seen

8CH. BEAD. IV. — 2

above the surface. Their young master, knowing
that they will stay here the rest of the day, finds
some shady spot and lies down to sleep, or to look
up for hours together into the calm blue sky above
him. But when the sun begins to sink in the west,

he calls his herd from tlieir muddy baths, mounts the
leading cow, and sets off slowly towards home. Even
though he should be belated and night should set in
before he reaches the house, he need have no fear of
any wild beast that may be prowling around. His :
buffaloes are afraid of nothing, and they are very
strong. Not even a tiger is a match for them ; and

if one should be so foolish as to venture in their
way, they will use their great strength and heavy
horns to such good advantage as to make short work
of him.

— ^>^00 —

FORTUNE AND THE BEGGAR.

5 One day a ragged beggar was creeping along from
house to house. He carried an old wallet in his
hand, and was asking at every door for a few cents
to buy something to eat. As he was grumbling at
his lot, he kept wondering why it was that folks

10 who had so much money were never satisfied but
were always wanting more.

" Here," said he, " is the master of this house —
I know him well. He was always a good business
man, and he made himself wondrously rich a long

16 time ago. Had he been wise he would have stopped
then. He would have turned over his business to
some one else, and then he could have spent the rest
of his life in ease. But what did he do instead ? He
took to building ships and sending them to sea to

20 trade with foreign lands. He thought he would get
mountains of gold.

^^ But there were great storms on the water ; his
ships were wrecked, and his riches were swallowed
up by the waves. Now his hopes all lie at the

bottom of the sea, and his great wealth has vanished
like the dreams of a night.

"There are many such cases. Men seem to be
never satisfied unless they can gain the whole world.

" As for me, if I had only enough to eat and to s
wear I would not want anything more."

Just at that moment Fortune came down the
street. She saw the beggar and stopped. She said
to him: "Listen! I have long wished to help you.
Hold your wallet and I will pour this gold into ic
it. But I will pour only on this condition : All that
falls into the wallet shall be pure gold ; but every
piece that falls upon the ground shall become dust.
Do you understand ? "

" Oh, yes, I understand," said the beggar. ic

"Then have a care," said Fortune. "Your wallet
is old ; so do not load it too heavily."

The beggar was so glad that he could hardly wait.
He quickly opened his wallet, and a stream of yellow
dollars was poured into it. The wallet soon began 2t
to grow heavy.

" Is that enough ? " asked Fortune.

"Not yet."

" Isn't it cracking ? "

" Never fear." 2B

The beggar's hands began to tremble. Ah, if
the golden stream would only pour forever!

*' You are the richest man in the world now ! "
"Just a little more," said the beggar; "add just
a handful or two."

" There, it's full. The wallet will burst."

6 " But it will hold a little more, just a little more ! "

Another piece was added, and the wallet split. The

treasure fell upon the ground and was turned to

dust. Fortune had vanished. The beggar bad now

nothing but his empty wallet, and it was torn from

10 top to bottom. He was as poor as before.

— From the Russian of Ivan Krikiff.

THE PIPER'S SONG.

Piping down the valleys wild,

Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child.

And he,^ laughing, said to me,

" Pipe a song about a lamb," 5

So I piped with merry cheer.
"Piper, pipe that song again,"

So I piped, he wept to hear.

" Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe.

Sing thy songs of happy cheer." 10

So I sang the same again,

While he wept with joy to hear.

" Piper, sit thee down and write

In a book that all may read."
So he vanished from my sight ; 15

And I plucked a hollow reed.

And I made a rural pen,

And I stained the water clear.
And I wrote my happy songs

Every child may joy to hear. 20

— William Blake.

TWO SURPRISES.
A workman plied his clumsy spade
As the sun was going down ;

The German king with his cavalcade
Was coming into town.

" How much," said the king, " Ls thy gain in a day ? "

" Eight groschen," the man rephed.
" And canst thou Hve on this meager pay ? " —

"Like a king," he said with pride.

" Two groschen for me and my wife, good friend,

And two for a debt I owe ;
Two groschen to lend and two to spend

For those who can't labor, you know/'

" Thy debt ? " said the king. Said the toiler, " Yea, 5

To my mother with age oppressed,
Who cared for me, toiled for me, many a day,

And now hath need of rest."

" To whom dost lend of thy daily store ? "

" To my three boys at school. You see, 10

When I am too feeble to toil any more,
They will care for their mother and me."

" And thy last two groschen ? " the monarch said.

" My sisters are old and lame ;
I give them two groschen for raiment and bread, 15

All in the Father's name."

Tears welled up in the good king's eyes —

" Thou knowest me not," said he ;
" As thou hast given me one surprise.

Here is another for thee.

" I am thy king ; give me thy hand " —
And he heaped it high with gold —

" When more thou needest, I command
That I at once be told.

"For I would bless with rich reward
The man who can proudly say,

That eight souls he doth keep and guard
On eight poor groschen a day."

-•ojOjoo-

FREAKS OF THE FROST.

5 The Frost looked forth one still, clear night.
And whispered, " Now I shall be out of sight ;
So through the valley and over the height

In silence I'll take my way.
I will not go on like that blustering train —
10 The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain —
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain ;
But ril be as busy as they."

Then he flew to the mountain and powdered ^ts cr8st ;

He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed
16 With diamond beads ; and over the breast
Of the quivering lake he spread

A coat of mail, that it need not fear

The downward point of many a spear

That he hung on its margin, far and near,
20 Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over each pane, like a fairy, crept ;
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped,

By the light of the morn were seen
Most beautiful things : there were flowers and trees, o
There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees ;
There were cities, and temples, and towers ; and these

All pictured in silver sheen.

But he did one thing that was hardly fair :

He went to the cupboard, and finding there lo

That all had forgotten for him to prepare —

" Now, just to set them a-thinking,
I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he,
" This costly pitcher I'll burst in three ;
And the glass of water they've left for me i5

Shall Schick ! ' to tell them I'm drinking."

— Hannah F, Gould,

-oo»<o«-

GOING EAST BY SAILING WEST.

About four hundred years ago there came to Spain
an Italian sailor who believed that the earth is
round. Such a belief may not seem at all strange
to us, but to the people of that time it appeared to 20
be very foolish and unreasonable. Almost every-

body laughed at the Italian, and called him a silly
fellow.

" Have you eyes ? " they asked. " If so, you need
only to open them and look about you to see that
5 the earth is as flat as the top of a table."

"You may think it is flat," he answered, "and

indeed it does appear to be so. But I know it is

round ; and if I had only a good ship or two, and

some trusty sailors, I would prove it to you. I

10 would sail westward across the great ocean, and in

the end would reach the Indies and China, which

must be on the other side of the great round world."

" Whoever heard of such nonsense ! " cried the

learned doctors in the university of Salamanca.

15 " Everybody knows that China and the Indies are in

the far East, and that they can be reached only by

a dangerous voyage through the Mediterranean Sea,

and long journeys with camels across the great

desert. Yet, here is Mr. Crack-brain, an Italian

20 sailor, who says he can go to the East by sailing

west. One might as well try to reach the moon by

going down into a deep well."

"But you don't understand me," answered the

man whom they had called Mr. Crack-brain. " Here

25 is an apple. Let us suppose that it is the earth. I

stick a pin on this side, and call it Spain. On the

other side I stick another pin, and call it the Indies.

Now suppose a fly lights upon the apple at the point
which I have called Spain. By tiu'ning to the right,
or eastward, he can travel round to the Indies with
but little trouble ; or by turning to the left, or west-
ward, he can reach the same place with just as much s
ease, and in really a shorter time. Do you see ? ''

" Do we see ? " answered the doctors. ''" Certainly
we see the apple, and we can imagine that we see
the fly. It is very hard, however, to imagine that
the earth is an apple, or anything like it. For, sup- lo
pose that it Avere so : what would become of all the
water in the seas and the great ocean? Why, it
would run off at the blossom end of the apple, which
you call the South Pole ; and all the rocks and trees
and men would follow it. Or, suppose that men 15
could stick to the lower part of the earth as the fly
does to the lower part of the apple — how very silly
it would be to think of them walking about with
their heads hanging down ! "

" And suppose," said one of the doctors who 20
thought himself very wise — "suppose that the earth
is roimd, and suppose that the water should not spill
off, and suppose you should sail to the other side, as
you want to do, how are you to get back? Did
anybody ever hear of a ship sailing up hill ? " 25

And so the learned doctors and professors dis-
missed the whole subject. They said it was not

worth while for wise men to spend their time in
talking about such things. But the man whom they
had called Mr. Crack-brain would not give up his
theory. He was not the first man to believe that

5 the earth is round — this he knew ; but he hoped to
be the first to prove it by sailing westward, and
thus finally reaching the Indies, and the rich coun-
tries of the far East. And yet he had no ship^ he
was very poor, and the few friends whom he had

10 were not able to give him any help.

" My only hope," he said, " is to persuade the king
and queen to furnish me with a ship."

ir.

But how should an unknown Italian sailor make
himself heard by the king and queen of the most
15 powerful country in Europe ?

The great men at the king's court ridiculed him.
" You had better buy a fisherman's boat," they
said, "and try to make an honest living with your
nets. Men of your kind have no business with kings.
20 As to your crazy theory about the shape of the earth,
only think of it! How dare you, the son of an
Italian wool-comber, imagine that you know more
about it than the wisest men in the world ? "

But he did not despair. For years he followed
25 the king's court from place to place. Most people

looked upon him as a kind of harmless lunatic who
had gotten a single idea in his head and was unable
to think of anything else. But there were a few
good and wise men who listened to his theories, and
after studying them care- o
fully, began to believe that
there was some truth in
them.

One of these men was
Father Perez, the prior of lo
the convent of La Rabida ;
and, to please this good
prior, the queen at last
sent for the sailor and asked him to tell her all
about his strange theories and his plans for sailing is
west and reaching the East.

Oonnnt of La Rallda,

" You say that if yon had the vessels and the men
you would sail westward and discover new lands on
the farther side of the great ocean," said the queen.
" What reasons have you for supposing that there 20
are any such lands?"

"My first reason is that, since the earth is round
like a ball, the coxmtries of China and the Indies
must lie in a westward direction and can, sooner or
later, be reached by sailing across the sea," was the as

answer. " You, yourself, have heard the story of St.
Brandon, the Scottish priest, who, eight hundred years
ago, was driven by a storin far across the ocean, and
how at last he landed upon a strange and unknown

s shore. I doubt not but that this
country was one of the outlying islands
of the Indies, or perhaps the eastern
shore of China.

" Not very long ago, Martin Vincent,

10 a sea captain of Lisbon, ventured to go
a distance of four hundred miles from
land. There he picked up a piece of
wood, with strange marks and carv- '^""'^ i"-""""'

ings upon it, which had been drifted from the west

us by strong winds. Other seafaring men have found,
far out in the ocean, reeds and light wood, such as
travelers say are found in some parts of the Indies,
but nowhere in Europe. And if any one should want
more proofs than these, it would not be hard to find

so them. There is a story among the people of the far
north which relates that, about five hundred years
ago, some bold sea rovers from Iceland discovered a
wild, wooded country many days' sail to the westward.
Indeed, it is said that these men tried to form a

25 settlement there, and that they sent more than one
shipload of grapes and timber back to Iceland. Now,
it is very plain to me that this country of Vin-

land, as they called it, was no other than a part cpt
the northern coast of Chma or Japan."

It is not to be supposed that the queen cared
whether the earth was round or flat ; nor is it likely
that her mind was ever troubled with questions of ^
that kind. But she thought that if this man's
theories were true, and there were lands rich in gold
and spices on the other side of the ocean, it would be .
a fine thing for the queen and king of Spain to pos-
sess them. The Italian sailor had studied his subject lo
well, and he certainly knew what he was talking
about. He had told his story so well that the queen
was almost ready to believe that he was right. But
she was very busy just then, in a war with the
Moors, and she had little time to think about any- 16
thing else. If the Italian would wait- till everything
else could be settled, she would see whether a ship or
two might not be fitted out for his use.

IV.

For seven years this man with a new idea kept on
trying to find some one who was able and willing %
to help him carry out the plans which he had so
much at heart. At last, broken in health and almost
penniless, he gave up hope, and was about to leave
Spain forever. It was then that one of his friends,
Luis St. Angel, pleaded his case before the queen. 2\

" It will cost but little to fit out two or three ships
for him. If the undertaking should prove to be a
failure, you would not lose much. But if it should
succeed, only think what vast riches and how great
honor will be won for Spain ! " 5

" I will take the risk ! " cried the queen, at last.
" If the money can not be had otherwise, I will sell
my jewels to get it. Find him, and bring hun
before me ; and let us lose no more time about
this business." lo

St. Angel hastened to obey.

" Do you know whether Christopher Columbus has
passed out through this gate to-day?" he asked of
the soldier who was standing guard at one of the
gates of the old city of Granada. is

" Christopher Columbus ? Who is he ? " asked the
soldier.

" He is a gray-bearded man, rather tall, with a
stoop in his shoulders. When last seen he was rid-
ing on a small, brown mule, and coming this way." co

'' Oh ! Do you mean the fellow who has been try-
ing to make people believe that the earth is round ?"

" Yes, that is the man."

"He passed through here not half an hour ago.
His mule is a very slow traveler, and if you follow, 25
you can easily overtake him before he has gone far."

St. Angel gave the rein to his swift horse, and

galloped onward in pursuit of Columbus. It was not
long until the slow-paced mule, with its sad rider,
was seen plodding along the dusty highway. The
man was too busy with his own thoughts

B to heed the sound of the ringing hoofs
behind him.

"Christopher Columbus!" cried his
friend, " turn about, and come back with
me, I have good news for you. Queen

10 Isabella bids me say that she will help
you, and that you shall have the ships
and the men for which you ask in order f^^^^" OoimDbui.
to find a new way to the East, and perhaps discover
unknown lands on the further side of the great ocean,

u Turn about, and come back with me ! "

One morning in August, 1492, there was a great
stir in the little seaport town of Palos in Spain. At
break of day the streets were full of people. Every-
body had risen early and was hurrying down toward

20 the harbor. Long before sunrise the shore was lined

with anxious men, women, and children. All were

talking about the same thing ; some were weeping ;

some appeared to be angry ; some were in despair.

" Only think of it," said one? " Think of sailing

36 into seas where the water is always boiling hot."

" And if you escape being scalded," said another,
" then there are those terrible sea beasts that are
large enough to swallow ships and sailors at a single
mouthful. Oh, why should the queen send men on
such a hopeless voyage as this ? " s

" It is all on account of that Italian sailor who
says that the world is round," said a third. " He
has persuaded several persons, who
ought to know better, that he
can reach the East hy sailing lo
west."

Moored near the shore

were three small ships.

They were but little larger

than fishing boats ; and in u

these frail vessels Columbus

was going to venture into tlie

vast unknown sea, in search of strange lands and

of a new and better way to distant India.

Two of the ships, the "Nina" and the«Puita,"M
had no decks and were covered only at the ends
where the sailors slept. The third, called the
'* Santa Maria," was lai^r and had a deck, and from
its masthead floated the flag of Columbus. It was
toward these tluee ahips that the eyes oi tiie people »
"~' \ it was about these ships and
1 that all wen talking.

Tha Sutft Uftrift.

On the deck of the largest ship stood Columbus,

and by his side was good Father Perez, praying that

the voyagers might be blessed with fair winds and

a smooth sea, and that the brave captain miglit be

» successful in his quest. ^

Then the last good-byes were
spoken, the moorings were cast
loose, the sails were spread ;
and, a little before sunrise,
10 the vessels glided slowly out
of the harbor and into the vast
western ocean. The people stood
on the shore and watched, while ^Z~~

the sails grew smaller and small- "^^^ ^^'*'

15 er and at last were lost to sight below the line of sea
and sky.

" Alas ! We shall never see them again," said
some, returning to their homes. But others re-
mained all day by the shore talking about the
20 strange idea that there were unknown lands in the
distant west.

Two hundred miles southwest of Palos there is a

group of islands called the Canary Islands. These

were well known to the people of that time, and

a belonged to Spain. But sailors seldom ventured be-

yond them, and no one knew of any land farther
to the west. It was to these islands that Columbus
first directed his course. In six days the three little
vessels reached the Canary Islands. The sailing had
been very slow. The rudder of one of the ships had »
not been well made and had soon been broken. And
so, now, much time was wasted while having a new
rudder made and put in place.

It was not until the 6th of September
that Columbus again set sail, pushing lo
westward into unknown waters.
Soon the sailors began to give
way to their fears. The
thought that they were on
seas where no man had before a
z^^' ventured filled them with
aJarm. They remembered all
the strange stories that they
had heard of dreadful monsters and of mysterious
dangers, and their minds were filled with distress. ao

But Columbus showed them how unreasonable
these stories were; and he aroused their curiosity
by telling them wonderful things about India —
that land of gold and precious stones, which they
would surely reach if they would bravely perse- 2s
vere.

And so, day after day, they sailed onward, not

knowing where they were nor toward what unknown

region their course was directed. The sea was calm,

and the wind blowing from the east drove the ships

steadily forward. By the first of October they had

5 sailed more than two thousand miles. Birds came

from the west, and flew about the ships. The water

was full of floating seaweed. But still no laud could

be seen.

Then the sailors began to fear that they would

10 never be able to return against the east wind that
was blowing. "Why should we obey this man,
Columbus?" they said. "He is surely mad. Let
us throw him into the sea, and then turn the ships
about while we can."

16 But Columbus was so firm and brave that they
dared not lay hands on him ; they dared not disobey
him. Soon they began to see signs of the nearness
of land. Weeds, such as grow only in rivers, were
seen floating near the ships. A branch of a tree,

20 with berries on it, was picked up. Columbus offered
a reward to the man who should first see land.

" We must be very near it now," he said. " Before
another day we shall discover it."

That night no one could sleep. At about two

25 o'clock the man who was on the lookout on one of
the smaller vessels cried : " Land ! land ! land ! "
Columbus himself had seen a distant light moving,

•

some hours before. There was now a great stir on
board the ships.

" Where is the land ? " cried every one.

" There — there ! Straight before us."

Yes, there was a low, dark mass far in front of 5
them, which might be land. In the dim starlight, it
was hard to make out what it was. But one thing
was certain, it was not a mere expanse of water, such
as lay in every other direction. And so the sailors
brought out a little old-fashioned cannon and fired it lo
oflE as a signal to the crews of the other vessels.
Then the sails of the three ships were furled, and
they waited for the light of day.

When morning dawned, Columbus and his com-
panions saw that they were quite near to a green is
and sunny island. It was a beautiful spot. There
were pleasant groves where the songs of birds were
heard. Thousands of flowers were seen on every
hand, and the trees were laden with fruit. The
island was inhabited, too ; for strange men could be 20
seen running toward the shore and looking with
wonder at the ships.

The sailors, who had lately been ready to give up
all hope, were now filled with joy. They crowded
around Columbus, and kissed his hands, and begged 25
him to forgive them for thinking of disobeying him.
The ships cast anchor, the boats were lowered, and

Columbus, with most of the men, went on shore.
Columbus was dressed in a grand robe of scarlet, and
the banner of Spain was borne above him.

VII.

As soon as the boats reached the shore, Columbus
5 stepped out and knelt down upon the beach and
gave thanks to God ; then he took possession of the
island in the name of the king and queen of Spain,
and called it San Salvador. It was thus that the
first land in America was discovered on the 12th of
10 October, 1492.

The natives were filled with wonder at what they
* saw. At first they were awed and frightened at

■

sight of the ships and the strange men; but they
soon overcame their fears and seemed delighted and

15 very friendly. They brought to Columbus gifts of
all they had, — bananas, yams, oranges, and beauti-
ful birds.

"Surely,'' they said, "these wonderful beings who
have come to us from the sea are not mere men like

20 ourselves. They must be messengers from heaven."

Columbus believed that this island was near the

coast of Asia, and that it was one of the islands of

India; and so he called the people Indians. He did

not remain here long, but sailed away to discover

other lands. In a short time the ships came to a
large island where there were rivers of fresh water
flowing into the sea. On every hand there were
bright flowers and climbing vines and groves of
palms and banana trees. The air was sweet with

H« look poiiMitoD i>f tba ialaud,

the breath of blossoms ; the sky was blue and clear ;
the sea was calm ; the world seemed full of joy and
peace. This island was Cuba.

" Let us live here always ! " cried the sailors ; " for
surely this is paradise."

And so, for three months and more, Columbus and
his companions sailed among scenes of delight, such
as they had never before imagined. They visited

island after island, and everywhere saw new beau-
ties and new pleasures. The natives were simple-
hearted and kind. "They love their neighbors as
themselves/' said Columbus. They looked with

5 wonder upon the bright swords of the white men
and upon their brilliant armor; and when the little
cannon was fired, they were so filled with alarm that
they fell to the ground.

It was on the 15th of the next March that Colum-

10 bus, after a stormy homeward voyage, sailed again
into the little harbor of Palos, from which he had
started. And now there was a greater stir in the
little town than there had been before. "Christo-
pher Columbus has come back from the unknown

16 seas ! " was the cry that went from house to house.
" Did he reach the East by sailing west ? Has he
really been to far-off India?" asked the doubting ones.
"He has, indeed!" was the answer. "He has
discovered a new world."

20 Then the bells were rung, guns were fired, and

bonfires blazed on the hilltops. Everybody rejoiced.

Everybody was willing now to say that the Italian

was right when he declared the earth to be round.

" Make haste and carry the news to the queen ! "

25 said the governor of the town. " Tell her that
Columbus has returned, and that he has really found
a new way to India."

DAYBREAK.

A wind came up out of the sea,

And said, " mists, make room for me !

It hailed the ships, and cried, " Sail on,
Ye mariners, the night is gone ! ''

And hurried landward far away, 5

Crying, " Awake, it is the day ! "

It said unto the forest, " Shout !
Hang all your leafy banners out ! "

It touched the wood-bird's folded wing.

And said, ^-0 bird, awake and sing ! " lo

And o'er the farms, " chanticleer.
Your clarion blow ; the day is near ! "

It whispered to the fields of corn,

" Bow down, and hear the chiming morn ! ''

It shouted through the belfry tower, 15

" Awake, bell ! proclaim the hour."

It crossed the churchyard with a sigh.
And said, " Not yet ! in quiet lie."

— Henry W. Longfellow,

TURTLES ON THE AMAZON.

The Amazon River is in South America. It is the
longest and largest river in the world. During the
rainy season it is not unlike a great inland sea. In
the dry season, when the stream is at its lowest,

6 vast sand banks crop up, here and there, above the
water, and line the shores on either side. The
greater part of its course is through a wild forest,
and there are no great cities upon its banks.

One pleasant evening a few years ago, a young

10 lad and an Indian guide landed from a canoe upon
a great bank of white sand which stretched for
miles along the river. Here they made ready to
pass the night. They gathered a heap of driftwood
and kindled a large fire to keep off the wild beasts,

15 of which there were many kinds in the forest. After
they had eaten a slight luncheon, they agreed to
keep watch by turns during the night.

The lad, whose turn came first, seated himself
upon a pile of sand and did his best to keep awake.

20 But he was very tired, and, in spite of himself, fell
into a nap, from which he was awakened by sliding
down the sand hill, and tumbling over on his side.
He jumped up quickly and looked around to see if
any creature had ventured near.

25 Yes, there, on the other side of the fire, he saw

a pair of dull eyes looking at him. Close to them
he saw another pair, then another, and another, until,
having looked on every side, he saw that he was
in the center of a circle of eyes ! • It is true
they were quite small eyes, and some of the s
heads which he could see by the blaze were
small. They had an ugly look, like the
heads of serpents.

The boy stood for some moments uncer-
tain what to do. He believed that the eyes lo
belonged to snakes which had just crept out of the
river ; and he feared that any movement on his part
would lead them to attack him. Having risen to
his feet, his eyes were above the level of the blazei,
and he was able in a little while to see more clearly, w

He now saw that the snake-like heads belonged
to creatures with large oval bodies, and that, besides
the fifty or more which had come up to look at
the fire, there were whole droves of them upon the
sandy beach beyond. As far as he could see on all 20
sides, the bank was covered with them. A strange
sight it was, and most fearful. For his life he could
not make out what it meant, or by what sort of
wild animals he was surrounded.

He could see that their bodies were not larger 25
than those of small sheep; and, from the way in
which they glistened in the moonlight, he was sure

they had come out of the river. He called to the
Indian guide, who awoke and started to his feet
in alarm. The movement frightened the creatures
round the fire ; they rushed to the shore, and were
5 heard plunging by hundreds into the water.

II.

The Indian's ear caught the sounds, and his eye
took in the whole thing at a glance.

" Turtles," he said.

" Oh," said the lad ; " turtles, is it ? "
10 ^^Yes, master," answered the guide. "I suppose
this is one of their great hatching places. They are
going to lay their eggs in the sand."

There was no danger from turtles, but the fright

bad chased away sleep, and the two travelers sat by

15 the camp fire for some time, talking about these

strange creatures. The turtles of the Amazon meet

together in great herds every year. Each of the

herds chooses a place for itself — some sandy island

or great sand bank. They then crawl ashore at

20 night in vast multitudes, and each turtle, with the

strong, crooked claws of her hind feet, digs a hole in

the sand. Each hole is about three feet across and

two feet deep. In this she lays her eggs — -from

seventy to one hundred and twenty in number —

25 white, hard-shelled, and somewhat larger than the

eggs of a pigeon. She then fills the hole with sand,
leveling the top to make the sand bank look as
smooth as before ; this done, her work is at an end.
In a few days the great army betakes itself to the
water, and scatters in every direction. s

The sun, shining upon the sand, does the rest,
and in less than six weeks the young turtles, about as
broad as a silver dollar, crawl out of the sand and at
once find their way to the
water. Tliey are afterwards lo
■ seen in shallow pools or lakes
far from the place where
they were hatched. How
they find these pools, or
whether their mothers know is
their own young ones and lead them thither, nobody
knows.

An old mother turtle is often seen swimming with
as many as a hundred little ones after her. Now,
are these her own, or are they a collection which 20
she has picked up here and there ? Would it not be
strange if each mother turtle should know her own
young? Such a thing seems scarcely possible, and
yet there may he some instinct which gives her the
power to tell which of the little ones among the as
millions really belong to her. Who can say ?

— Mayne Jieid.

A Mother TartU and Little Onei.

HOW THE THRUSHES CROSSED THE SEA.

In Egypt, not far from the pyramids, a mother
thrush had spent a pleasant winter with a fine brood
of young thrushes. But as the days began to grow
warmer, a strange restlessness began to warn them
5 that it was time to take their flight to a more
northern country and a less sunny clime.

The mother thrush gathered her children together,
and having joined a flock of friends from the banks
of the upper Nile, they spread their wings and flut-
lotered away toward the Mediterranean Sea. There
in due time they arrived, and alighted not far from
the shore.

"Where shall we go now?" asked one of the
young birds, whose name was Songful.
15 " We must cross the great sea," said his mother.

"What!" cried another, who was called Think-
little. "How can we do that? We shall drown
before we are halfway across."

Then a third, whom everybody knew as Grumbler,

20 began to complain. "Oh dear!" he cried. "You

have brought us here only to drown us in the sea."

Then Songful, and Thinklittle, and Thankful, the
rest of Mother Thrush's family, all joined in the cry
of Grumbler. " You have brought us here only to
25 drown us in the sea ! "

son. READ. IV. — 4

"Wait a little while/' said their mother, quietly.
" We must find a ship to carry us across."

" Ah! " sighed Songful, "but I am afraid of ships!
They often carry some of those creatures called boys,
who shoot arrows and throw stones at little birds ! " s

"True enough!" said Thinklittle. "Ships are
dangerous things."

"And you brought us here only to be shot and
stoned by bad ship boys ! " cried Grumbler.

But the patient mother bird said, " Wait a little k
while ! Wait a little while ! "

The very next day a strange sound was heard
high up in the air : " Honk ! honk ! honk ! "

" There are our ships ! " cried Mother Thrush.

" What do you mean ? " piped Thinklittle. And ii
he hopped upon a twig, looked up into the sky, and
shook his wings. "I see nothing but a flock of
those clumsy storks that wade in the mud by the
river banks or sit on the high columns of the old
temples. I know all abo.ut them." 2(

" Ha ! ha ! " laughed Songful. " Do you expect
to see ships coming from the sky ? Look toward
the sea, brother ! " And then he sang one of his
happiest songs.

"What great awkward fellows those storks are!" 25
said Grumbler. " There is no more music in them
than in an Egyptian water wheel." And with that

he began to whistle a merry tune to show how much
better he was than the birds he despised.

But his mother only nodded her head and said^
" Wait a little while ! "

6 The storks settled down upon the shore, quite

near to the little company of thrushes. There, for

a while, they fed among the tall plants that grew

by the margin of the water. But soon they began

to make a great stir ; and they called to one another

10 among the reeds, " Honk, creek ! Honk, creek ! "

" There ! " said Mother Thrush. " They're going !

Get ready, my children ! We must go with them.''

^^ How are we going to do that ? " cried Grumbler.

"Yes, how?" said Thinklittle. "We are nob

16 strong enough to keep up with those storks."

" Silence ! " cried Mother Thrush, now much ex-
cited. "Say not a word, but do as I do."

The storks slowly raised their awkward bodies and
spread their huge wings. Then they soared into
20 the air, trailed their legs behind them, and crying
hoarsely, took their course straight across the sea.

" Now ! " cried Mother Thrush. " Be quick !
Follow me, and do as I do ! "

She darted into the midst of the flock of storks,
as with her four broodlings close beside her. For a

moment or two, she fluttered over a gray-winged
stork, and then settled down upon the bund's broad
back and nestled between her wings. All her family
followed, and cuddled down beside her. For a short
time they felt so strange in their odd resting place 5
that they kept very still. But after a while the
young ones began to talk.

"This is a pleasant voyage, indeed," said Think-
little. " How nice to ride on the backs of these big
storks ! The people who ride on camels, or on the lo
little donkeys that trot to and from the pyramids,
have not half so pleasant a time."

" Now I understand what mother meant when she
spoke of ships," said Songful. "I wonder if she
thinks our stork will carry us all the way across." i5

" Indeed, she will ! " said Mother Thrush.

"Yes," said Grumbler; "she may, if she doesn't
shake us all off and drown us ! "

III.

They rode on for many and many a mile, some-
times being a little frightened as the stork fluttered 20
to and fro, or sank and rose again. But now and
then they ventured to peep out between the wide-
spread wings, and look down upon the green sea
that rolled beneath them.

" Mother," at last said Thankful. 25

" Well, my dear."

"Don't you think that the stork must be very
tired, and that we ought to do something
to comfort and cheer her as she flies ? "
B "Hush!" cried
Thinklittle. "If the
stork finds that we are
here, she will toss us off
of her back."
10 " Oh, who cares if the
stork is tired," said Grumbler. " She can
feel no worse than we do."

Thankful was silent for a little while.
Then she crept close to her brother Songful, and the
16 two twittered softly together for a moment. At
last, without a word to the others, they lifted their
heads and broke forth together into song. The notes
of the duet rose sweet and clear above the fluttering
of the stork's wings and the whistling of the shrill
20 north wind.

" Ah ! " cried Thinklittle, as he heard the song ; " it
is very sweet, indeed, and I feel almost like singing
too. But what if the old stork should hear us ! "
" Yes, indeed," said Grumbler. " It is very fool-
25 ish to let her know that we are here."

But the stork listened to the song with pleasure
and was not at all angry. More than once she

turned her head backward, and out of her deep round
eyes looked kindly upon the singers.

" Thank you/' she said when the song was ended.
*^ You have cheered the way with your pleasant song.
I am so glad that you chose to come with me." 6

Thinklittle was ashamed of himself, and began to
warble a pretty tune ; and then Grumbler forgot to
complain, and joined in the song.

From that time on, all the way across the sea, the
carrier stork was made happy by the melody of the lo
grateful thrushes. At last the northern shore was
reached, and the thrushes rose from the back of the
great bird that had carried them so far and so safely.
Then breaking into a chorus of song, with sweet
words of farewell, they flew away to make the rest w
of the journey home upon their own wings.

When they reached the green fields and broad
canals of Holland, they found the good stork and
her friends already at home on the tall chimneys of
an old town; and after friendly greetings they set2(
to work building their own nests.

Now it happened that this story was much talked
about in Holland, and so from that day to this the
little song birds which cross the sea on the backs of
the great storks are said to warble all the way. 21
And the storks are glad to carry them, because of
their sweet songs. —Henry a McCook.

THE HAYMAKERS — OLD STYLE.

It is five o'clock. The morning is clear and
fresh. A hundred birds, — yes, five hundred — are
singing as birds never sing except in the morning.
Will it rain to-day ? The heavens overhead look

5 like it, but the barometer says, " No." Then a few
rounds with the scythe before breakfast, by way of
getting the path open !

There they go, a pretty pair of mowers ! The
blinking dewdrops on the grass tops wink at them

10 and pitch headlong under the stroke of the swing-
ing scythe. How low and musical is the sound of
a scythe in its passage through a thick pile of grass !
There sounds the horn ! Breakfast is ready. All
the children are farmer's boys for the occasi'

15 Bless their appetites ! It does one good to jj /;
see growing children eat with a real
hearty appetite. Mountain air, a free h
foot in grassy fields and open groves,
plain food and enough of it — these „_-^

20 things kill the lilies in the cheek and "T^^
bring forth roses.

John Dargu,

But we must hasten and make hay
while the sun shines. Already John Dargan is
whetting his scythe, — John, as tough as a knot,
85 strong as steel, famous in all the region for plow-

ing, and equally skillful at mowing — turning his
furrow and cutting his swath alike smoothly and
evenly. The man of the farm strikes in first ; John
follows, and away they go uphill toward the sun.
Round and round the field they go, with steady 9
swing, the grass plot growing less at every turn.

Meanwhile all the boys have been at work spread-
ing grass. The noon hour conies on. It passes, and
the sun begins to slope toward the western horizon.
It is time to house the hay. The day is gone, and 10
the night comes.

With another morning, and that Saturday morn-
ing, comes up the sun without a single cloud ; the
a,ir is clear as crystal. No mist on the river;
[■",1.;^^ no fleece on the mountains. ib

Yet the barometer is sinking — has been
sinking all night. It has fallen more than
a quarter of an inch and continues slowly
to fall. Our plans must be laid accord-
■ ingly. We will cut the clover, and pre- a
pare to get in all yesterday's mowing before
two o'clock. One load we roll in before
While snatching our hasty meal, affairs
grow critical. The sun is hidden. The noon is dark.

Now, if you wish to see pretty working, follow the a
cart. The long forks fairly leap among the hay ; to
a backward lift they spring up, poise a moment in

the air, and shoot their burdens forward upon the
^oad, where they are caught by the nimble John, and
in a twinkling are in their place.

We hear thunder and see the lightnings flash on
5 the horizon. There are no lazybones here ! All the
girls and ladies come forth to the fray. Delicate
hands are making lively work, raking up the scat-
tered grass, and flying with right nimble steps here
and there, bent on cheating the rain of its expected
^o prey.

And now the long windrows are formed. The

last load of hay from the other fields has just rolled

into the barn ! Down jumps John, and rolls up the

windrows into huge round piles. We follow and

X5 glean with the rake. The last one is finished.

A drop patters down on my face, — another, and
another. Look at those baseless mountains that
tower in the west, black as night at the bottom,
glowing like snow at the top edges ! Far in the
20 north the rain has begun to pour down upon old
Greylock ! But the sun is shining- through the
shower and turning it to a golden atmosphere.

Only a look can we spare, and all of us run for the

house and in good time. Down comes the flood, and

25 every drop is musical. We pity the neighbors who,

not warned by a barometer, are racing and chasing

to secure their outlying crop.

THE HAYMAKERS — NEW STYLE.

It is now nearly seven o'clock in the morning —
but early enough for laboring men to be in the field.
Ten hours — five before noon, and five after — is a
long day's work, and nobody, save the farmer and his
boys, can be expected to do more. And here come
the mowing machines, — one, two, three, four, — each
drawn by a team of sturdy but spirited horses.
What elegant pieces of mechanism these mowers are!
And yet, how simple, how light, how strong ! Not
much like the first rude contrivances, that were i;
made for the same purpose some forty years ago.

Open the gate, Patrick, and let them drive into
the field. Johnson, with the team of sprightly
blacks, will take the lead ; for he is a careful driver,
and his fast-walking horses will keep well out of the i£
way of those that follow. Now, while they are
making ready for the start, cast your eye over the
sea of waving timothy before you. Thirty acres of
the finest meadow land in the country — level as a
floor, and not a stump or a stick or a stone in the 20
way. What would your grandfather have done in
such a fields with only an old-fashioned scythe or
two, and so much grass to be cut?

And now the work begins. The sickle bars are
let down. The drivers, on their comfortable spring ac
seats, give the word to the horses, and they start

off gayly enough, but steadily — for they know that
this is to be no holiday for them. Clicket-clicket-
clicket-clicket-clicket ! sings the row of sharp knives,
nicknamed the

s sickle, as it flies
back and forth
faster than your
eye can follow it.
It spares nothing

lothat comes in its
way. The tall
timothy, the strag- Jobiwn uk» tb» i»»d.

gling blue grass, the blossoming clover, fall prostrate
as it passes. No need now for the boys to toss the

15 hay with their pitchforks; for it is already spread,
and much more evenly than they could spread it.

Johnson takes the lead, keeping his blacks close to
the fence and' driving them right over a road's width
of standing grass. But never mind that. When he
so has gone once round, he will turn back upon it, and
his machine will take up and cut all that is now
being overrun. The other mowers follow in order
and at short distances apart. Talk about the music
of the old-fashioned scythe! Clicket-clicket-clicket-

Mclicket! Only listen to the flying sickles of these
four mowers as they cut their way through tall
grass and short alike ! They are the quartette

of the hayfield singing in unison the song of the
harvest.

As to the blinking of dewdrops, who cares for
them, nowadays? The sooner the sun disposes of
them, the better. And the birds ? Well, if any lark •
has foolishly built her nest among the sheltering
tufts of blue grass, let her make haste to leave it —
for mowing machines have no hearts of pity for such
creatures. And woe to the young quails whose wings
are not yet strong enough to carry them out of the i*
reach of danger ! It is not likely that any bird dares
to sing in the midst of this destruction and terror.
If he does so, his song is unheard. '

Each mower has gone seven times round the field.
The sun pours down scorching hot, turning the cut ic
grass into hay almost as fast as it falls. The horses
are reeking with sweat. The men in their comforta-
ble spring seats are warm and hungry, but not tired
in the true sense of the word. More than half of the
thirty acres has been mowed. In a single forenoon 20
they have done as much as your grandfather and
three of his mowers, with John Dargan besides, could
have done in a week — and they have done it better,
too.

After a long noon hour they are at it again. And 25
now comes Patrick and the two big boys with the
rakes. No miserable hand rakes to blister your palms

and make your back and shoulders ache — but genu-
ine horse rakes with a wheel at each end and a nice
seat for the driver above. One of them
will pile up more hay in a minute t

i than you could put together

with a pitchfork in an hour ;

and there is no labor about

it except for the horse. -^

See how quickly the long '

o windrows are thrown together
all round the field ! And
neither the girls nor the ladies have helped.

What if the barometer is sinking ? Let the mow-
ers keep on with their work. With all this machin-

LR ery to help us, we can snap our fingers at the rain.

And now the great wagons come to the field.

The horse pitchforks are set to work. The loading

of the long windrows is the hardest work of all, but

it is done with speed. The thunder clouds begin to

a mutter far away in the west. The mowers stop.
A small square of timothy — three or four acres,
more or less — is still standing in the center of the
field; but it will be easy to finish that to-morrow.
Johnson and the other drivers lead their teams to the

a bam, and leave off work for the day. What care
they whether the hay which they have cut be housed
or not ? That is no part of their business.

But it 18 safely hoased. The last monster load ia
driven under the great sheds just as the big drops
begin to patter down from the clouds. Quick work
this ! But what may we not do when we have horse
power and cog wheels and cold iron to help us ? t

Not much poetry in it, did you say ? Ah, no ! And
to tell the truth there was not much poetry in the old
style of haymaking, save to those who stood a good
distance away and looked on. To the haymakers
themselves there was more backache than romance, k
and more weariness than music. And so the world
ever changes from the old to the new, but who can
tell whether the former times were better or worse
than our own?

THE KV.APER AND THE FLOWERS.

Among all our American poets no one is more 10
ivklely known and more generally loved than
Henry W. Longfellow. The sweetness of his
ioiLgs and the simple beauty of his ballads
are a source of never-ceasing delight to all
classes of readers. Many of his l>e3t «>
known poems were composed during
the earlier part of his life, when he ap-
peared as in this portrait. " The Reaper
and the Flowers" was written in De-
cember, 1838, "with peace in my heart, 28
Bsnry w. LoaghUaw, and not without tears in my eyes,"

}

There is a Reaper whose name is Death,

And, with his sickle keen.
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,

And the flowers that grow between.

^' Shall I have naught that is fair ? " saith he ;

" Have naught but the bearded grain ?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,

I will give them all back againJ

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes.
He kissed their drooping leaves ;

It was for the Lord of Paradise
He bound them in his sheaves.

" My Lord has need of these flowerets gay
The Reaper said, and smiled ;

" Dear tokens of the earth are they,
Where he was once a child.

" They shall all bloom in fields of light.

Transplanted by my care,
And saints, upon their garments white,

These sacred blossoms wear."

And the mother gave, in tears and pain.
The flowers she most did love ;

She knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.

"'Twu *D ugel viiltvd tbs gn«D aanh."

Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The Reaper came that day ;

'Twas an angel visited the green earth,
And took the flowers away.

THE DAY IS DONE.

5 The day is done, and the darkness

Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
10 Gleam through the rain and mist.

And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul can not resist —

A feeling of sadness and longing.
That is not akin to pain,
15 And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,

Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
20 And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,

8CH. READ. IV. — 5

Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,

Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor; mi

And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart,

As showers from the clouds of summer,

Or tears from the eyelids start ; i

Who, through long days of labor.

And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music

Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet i—

The restless pulse of care.
And come like the benediction

That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume

The poem of thy choice, 20

And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,

And the cares that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 25

And as silently steal away.

THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE.

It was not until more than a year after the battle
of Lexington that the people of the American colo-
nies began seriously to think of independence from
Great Britain. True, the laws of the king of Eng-

'> land had been openly opposed ; an army had been
formed, with George Washington as commander in
chief; there had been sharp fighting in more than
one place, and the British soldiers had been driven
out of Boston. But the Americans were contending

L€only for their liberties as British subjects. "Give
us," said they, " the rights that properly belong to
us, and we will submit."

But the king and his counselors refused to listen.
Matters grew rapidly worse and worse. The breach

15 between the colonies and the mother country became
wider and wider every day. Men were everywhere
losing their feeling of attachment to England. At
last the question of independence began to be openly
discussed.
20 The Continental Congress was sitting in the old
State House at Philadelphia. The men who com-
posed it represented the people of the thirteen colo-
nies; among them were many whose names afterwards
became famous in the history of our country. They

25 pondered this question long ; they discussed it in all

its bearings ; they studied it from every point ol .
view. To submit, and make peace with Great Britiun
now, would be but to fasten the chains of slaveiy.
upon the colonies ; to go on with the conflict might
result only in disaster. At last, on the 7th of JuiMt^ 5
1776, Richard Henry Lee arose and, in clear, sharp
tones that rang into the very street, ofliered this reso-
lution : "Resolved, That these United Colonies are,
and ought to be, free and independent States, and
all political connection between us and the State ol lo
Great Britain is, and ought to be, totally dissolved."

John Adams seconded the resolution, and at the
same time made a speech, so full of fervor and pro-
phetic ardor, that every man who heard him was car-
ried away by its eloquence. A committee was named ifi
to write a Declaration of Independence, and further
action upon the resolution was postponed until the
1st of July.

When the appointed day came, Mr. Lee's resolu-
tion was taken up, in committee of the whole, and 20
nine colonies agreed to it. On the following day,
July 2d, the final vote was taken upon it by Congress,
and all the colonies, except one, voted in favor of it.

In the meanwhile, on the 28th of June, the Decla-
ration of Independence had been submitted. It was 25
the work chiefly of Thomas Jefferson ; but the task
of urging its adoption by Congress fell mainly upon

John Adams. No sooner was Mr. Lee's resolution
disposed of than the Declaration was taken up and
read. Each article was considered and separately
discussed. The whole matter was bitterly opposed
by some of the members ; but after a debate which 5
lasted for nearly three days, the Declaration, as it
now stands, was adopted.

It was signed on the 4th of July, by John Han-
cock, the president of Congress, and published on the
same day ; but not until the 2d of August, after it 10
had been engrossed, were the names of the other
members affixed to it.

The famous painting by John Trumbull represents
the interior of the hall as it was supposed to be at
the moment when the Declaration was finally passed. 15
In the president's chair sits John Hancock, before
him stand Jefferson and Adams and Franklin, while
around the hall, in dignified silence, sit or stand the
other delegates from the colonies — great men all,
whose names will be remembered so long as our 2c
Republic shall endure.

II.

The following story, more fanciful than true, is
often told of the manner in which the adoption of
the Declaration was made known to the world :

There was tumult in the city,

In the quaint old Quaker town,
And the streets were rife with people

Pacing restless up and down :
People gathering at corners.

Where they whispered, each to each.
And the sweat stood on their temples.

With the earnestness of speech.

As the bleak Atlantic currents

Lash the wild Newfoundland shore.
So they beat against the State House,

So they surged against the door ;
And the mingling of their voices

Made a harmony profound,
Till the quiet street of chestnuts

Was all turbulent with sound.

" Will they do it ? " " Dare they do it ? "

" Who is speaking ? " " What's the news ? "
" What of Adams ? " " What of Sherman ? "

" Oh, God grant they won't refuse ! "
" Make some way, there ! " " Let me nearer ! "

" I am stifling ! " " Stifle, then ;
When a nation's life's at hazard

We've no time to think of men."

So they beat against the portal —

Man and woman, maid and child ;
And the July sun in heaven

On the scene looked down and smiled :
The same sun that saw the Spartan s

Shed his patriot blood in vain,
Now beheld the soul of freedom

All unconquered rise again.

Aloft in that high steeple

Sat the bellman, old and gray ; lo

He was weary of the tyrant

And his iron-sceptered sway ;
So he sat with one hand ready

On the clapper of the bell.
When his eye should catch the signal, 15

Very happy news to tell.

See ! see ! the dense crowd quivers

Through all its lengthy line,
As the boy beside the portal

Looks forth to give the sign ! 20

With his small hands upward lifted,

Breezes dallying with his hair, —
Hark ! with deep clear intonation.

Breaks his young voice on the air.

Hushed the people's swelling murmur —

List the boy's strong joyous cry !
" Ring ! " he shouts aloud ; " Ring Grandpa,

Ring ! Oh, ring for liberty ! "
And straightway, at the signal,

The old bellman lifts his hand,
And sends the good news, making

Iron music through the land.

How they shouted ! what rejoicing !

How the old bell shook the air.
Till the clang of freedom ruffled

The calm gliding Delaware.
How the bonfires and the torches

Illumed the night's repose.
And from the flames, like Phoenix,

Fair liberty arose !

That old bell now is silent.

And hushed its iron tongue.
But the spirit it awakened

Still lives — forever young !
We'll ne'er forget the bellman.

Who, 'twixt the earth and sky.
Rung out our independence ;

Which, please God, shall never die !

LITTLE JEAN.

A Christmas Story.
I.

Once upon a time, so long ago that everybody
has forgotten the date, there was a little boy whose
name was Jean. He lived with his aunt in a tall
old house in a city whose name is so hard to pro-
nounce that nobody can speak it. He was seven 5
years old, and he could not remember that he
had ever seen his father or his mother.
The old aunt who had the care of little Jean was
very selfish and cross. She gave him dry bread to
eat, of which there was never enough ; and not more 10
than once in the year did she speak kindly to him.

But the poor boy loved this woman, because he
had no one else to love ; and there Avas never a day
so dark that he did not think of the sunlight.

Everybody knew that Jean's aunt owned a house 15
and had a stocking full of gold under her bed, and
so she did not dare to send the little boy to the
school for the poor, as she would have liked to do.
But a schoolmaster on the next street agreed to
teach him for almost nothing ; and whenever there 2c
was work he could do, he was kept at home.

The schoolmaster had an unkind feeling for Jean,
because he brought him so little money and was

dressed so poorly. And so the boy was punished

very often, and had to bear the blame for all the

wrong that was done in the school.

The little fellow was often very sad; and more
5 than once he hid himself where he could not be seen

and cried as though his heart would break. But at

last Christmas came.

The night before Christmas there was to be sing-
ing in the church, and the schoolmaster was to be
10 there with all his boys ; and everybody was to have

a very happy time looking at the Christmas candles

and listening to the sweet music.

The winter had set in, very cold and rough, and

there was much snow en the ground ; and so the
15 boys came to the schoolhouse with fur caps drawn

down over their ears, and heavy coats, and warm

gloves, and thick high-topped boots.

But little Jean had no warm clothes. He came

shivering in the thin coat which he wore on Sundays
20 in summer ; and there was nothing on his feet but

coarse stockings very full of holes, and

a pair of heavy wooden shoes.

The other boys made many jokes

about his sad looks and his worn-out clothes. But
25 the poor child was so busy, blowing his fingers and

thumping his toes to keep them warm, that he did

not hear what was said. And when the hour came.

the whole company of boys, with the schoolmaster at
the front, started to the church.

It was very fine in the church. Hundreds of wax
candles were burning in their places, and the air was
so warm that Jean soon forgot his aching fingers. 5
The boys sat still for a little while ; and then while
the singing was going on and the organ was making
loud music, they began in low voices to talk to one
another; and each told about the fine things that
were going to be done at his home on the morrow. 10

The mayor-s son told of a monstrous goose that
he had seen in the kitchen before he came away; it
was stuffed, and stuck all over with cloves till it was
as spotted as a leopard. Another boy whispered of a
little fir tree in a wooden box in his mother's parlor ; 15
its branches were full of fruits and nuts and candy
and beautiful toys. And he said that he was sure of
a fine dinner, for the cook had pinned the two strings
of her cap behind her back, as she always did when
something wonderfully good was coming. 20

Then the children talked of what Santa Glaus
would bring them, and of what he would put in their
shoes, which, of course, they would leave by the fire-
place when they went to bed. And the eyes of the
little fellows danced with joy, as they thought of the 26

bags of candy and the lead soldiers, and the grand
jumping jacks which they would draw out in the
morning.

But little Jean said nothing. He knew that his

5 selfish old aunt would send him to bed without any
supper, as she always did. But he felt in his heart
that he had been all the year as good and kind as he
could be; and so he hoped that kind Santa Glaus
would not forget him nor fail to see his wooden shoes

10 which he would put in the ashes in the corner of the

fireplace.

III.

At last the singing stopped, the organ was silent,
and the Christmas music was ended. The boys arose
in order and left the church, two by two, as they

15 had entered it; and the teacher walked in front.

Now, as he passed through the door of the church,
little Jean saw a child sitting on one of the stone
steps and fast asleep in the midst of the snow. The
child was thinly clad, and his feet, cold as it was,

20 were bare.

In the pale light of the moon, the face of the
child, with its closed eyes, was full of a sweetness
which is not of this earth, and his long locks of yel-
low hair seemed like a golden crown upon his head.

25 But his poor bare feet, blue in the cold of that winter
night, were sad to look upon.

The scholars, so warmly clad, passed before the
strange child, and did not so much as glance that
way. But little Jean, who was the last to come out
of the church, stopped, full of pity, before him.

" Ah, the poor child ! " he said to himself. " How i
sad it is that he must go barefoot in such weather as

Hi> pool bua fwt vtn aad to look upon.

this! And what is still worse, he has not a stocking,
nor even a wooden slioe, to lay before him while he
sleeps, so that kind Santa Glaus can put something
in it to make him glad when he wakens." u

Little Jean did not stand long to think about it ;
but in the goodness of his heart, he took off the
wooden shoe from his right foot and laid it by the

side of the sleeping child. Then, limping along
through the snow, and shivering with cold, he went
down the street till he came to his cheerless home.
" You worthless fellow!" cried his aunt. "Where

5 have you been? What have you done with your
other shoe?"

Little Jean trembled now with fear as well as with
the cold; but he had no thought of deceiving his
angry aunt. He told her how he had given the shoe

10 to a child that was poorer than himself. The woman
laughed an ugly, wicked laugh.

" And so," she said, " our fine young gentleman
takes oflf his shoes for beggars ! He gives his wooden
shoe to a barefoot ! Well, we shall see. You may

15 put the shoe that is left in the chimney, and, mind
what I say ! If anything is left in it, it will be a
switch to whip you with in the morning. To-mor-
row, for your Christmas dinner, you shall have
nothing but a hard crust of bread to eat and cold

20 water to drink. I will show you how to give away
your shoes to the first beggar that comes along ! "

The wicked woman struck the boy upon the cheek
with her hand, and then made him climb up to his bed
in the loft. Sobbing with grief and pain, little Jean

25 lay on his hard, cold bed, and did not go to sleep till
the moon had gone down and the Christmas bells
had rung in the glad day of peace and good will.

In the morning when the old woman arose grum-
bling and went downstairs, a wonderful sight met
her eyes. The great chimney was full of beautiful
toys and bags of candy and all kinds of pretty
k tilings ; and right in the midst of these was the s
i wooden shoe which Jean had given to the child,
\ and near it was its mate in which the wicked
\aunt had meant to put a strong switch.

The woman was so amazed that she cried out
and stood still as if in a fright. Little Jean lo
' heard the cry and ran downstairs as quickly as
he could to see what was the matter. He, too,
stopped short when he saw all the beautiful things
that were in the chimney. But as he stood and
looked, he heard people laughing in the street, is
What did it all mean?

By ttie side of the town pump many of the neigh-
bors were standing. Each was telling what had
happened at his home that morning. The boys who
had rich parents and had been looking for beautiful ao
gifts, had found only long switches in their shoes.

But, in the meanwhile, Jean and his aunt stood

still and looked at the wonderful gifts around the

two wooden shoes. Who had placed them there ?

And where now was the kind, good giver? as

Then, as they still wondered, they heard the voice

81 •

of some one reading in the little chapel over the
way : " Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least
of these — " And then, in some strange way, they
understood how it had all come about ; and even the
heart of the wicked aunt was softened. And their
eyes were filled with tears and their faces with
smiles, as they knelt down together and thanked the
good God for what he had done to reward the kind-
ness and love of a little child.

— Adapted from the French of Frangois Copp4e.

^J«<o«-

HENRY'S BREAKFAST.

10 Henry's father was fond of asking him puzzling
questions. One day he said, " How many people do
you suppose helped to get the breakfast that you
ate this morning?"

"Two," answered Henry, without stopping to

15 think. " Mother made the coffee, and Mary broiled
the steak and fried the eggs and did all the rest of
the work."

Mr. K. Yes, but that was only a small part of
what was done in order that you might begin the

20 day with a good, wholesome meal. Many people
whom you never saw were at work weeks and
months ago, helping to get that breakfast.

8CH. READ. IV. — 6

Henry. I don't see how that could be.
Mr. K. Well, let us begin with the coffee.
Henry. Yes, Mother made that.
Mr. K. She only made it ready for you to drink.
Away off in the southern part of Arabia, or per- b
' . haps it was in the sunny land of Brazil, a young
^ " man gathered and dried the berries of which
the coffee was made. Another man carried the
3£>' coffee berries to market ; a trader in coffee
t' bought them ; one of his servants packed them, lo
with more than a bushel of such grains, in a
strong coffee sack; a sailor carried tlie coffee
on board of a ship, and another sailor took it
down into the ship's hold. The ship sailed across
the sea, and after it had reached New York the is
coffee was taken out of the hold, and other men
carried it to the shore. A truckman hauled the
bags away from the wharf, a commission merchant's
workmen stored them in a warehouse. By and
by the village grocer bought some of the coffee, 20
and among it were the very berries that were used
for you this morning. The expressman carried it
to the grocery store ; the grocer's clerk ground the
berries in his coffee mill ; and the grocer's boy
brought the pulverized coffee to your mother yester- as
day. Now, how many persons helped to make your
coffee and get it ready for you to drink ?

Henry. Fourteen or fifteen, besides mother.
Mr. K. But you have not counted all. Your
coffee was made up in large part of water which
somehody must have drawn up from the

5 well or forced through the water pipes
from the waterworks. It also contained
milk or cream, which the milkman brought
to the door.

Henry. Oh, yes, I see. And there was

10 sugar in it, too, which came from — ^~j i ■
from- •^*'

Mr. K. The sugar came from Louisiana, or it
may be from Cuba. A good many people took part
in the making of that sugar. One man planted and

16 cultivated the sugar cane ; another cut it, and hauled
it to the mill ; a third passed it through great rollers
which squeezed all the juice out of it ; a fourth
saw that the juice was emptied into boilers or
evaporating pans; a fifth kept the fire bum-

ao ing underneath the boilers ; a sixth drained
off the sirup from the granulated sugar; a
seventh put the sugar into a barrel and made it
ready for shipment ; an eighth rolled the barrel into
a wagon ; and a ninth hauled it to the wharf at the

25 bank of the river. Indeed, it would be hard to say
how many people, first and last, helped you to that
spoonful of sugar. At least fifty, I should say.

Henry. And all that labor for a cup of coffee ! I
never thought of it before.

Mr- K. All that, and more too ! If we knew
the entire history of the coffee which you drank so
thoughtlessly and yet with so ranch relish, we should 5
find that it required the labor of several hundred
persons to make it ready and bring it to you.

Henry. Mary brought it to me. But the coffee
was only a small part of my breakfast.

Mr. K. True ! There was the bread. It was made w
■f J from wheat which I suppose grew in Dakota.
Think of the man that sowed the wheat, of him
that reaped it, of him that threshed it, of him
that hauled it to market — and then of the
millers and merchants and grocers and bakers u
- who ground it and bought and sold the flour
and prepared it for your use. You may count
' them for yourself if you can.
Henry. I am sure I could never count them. But,
now that I think of it, there were the baking powder a
and the salt. It must have taken a good many men
to make them, too.

Mr. K. There is no doubt about it. Then, be-
sides the coffee and the bread, there is the beefsteak
which Mary broiled so nicely for you. A few weeks 2:
ago it was a part of a hving animal roaming at will
, in the grassy fields. How many people do you

think were engaged, first in taking care of the ox,
and then in preparing hia flesh and bringing it to us,
all ready for the broiling ?

Henry. I should think fifty, at least,
i Mr. K. Then, you had potatoes, didn't you?
The gardener brought them in from his own fields,
and so they did not pass through very niaiiy
hands. You have already spoken of the

10 wells of Michigan, or of New York, and W' S
many men found work in the making of
it. The pepper with which you seasoned
your potatoes was brought from the East
Indies, on the other side of the world.

u Henry. It makes me feel quite rich to think that
so many people have been at work getting things
for my breakfast.

Mr. K. Yes ; you might say that you have ser-
vants in every part of the world, and that more

20 than a thousand persons whom you never saw are
busy every day, preparing and getting together and
carrying the good things that you use for food.

Henry. But tbey work for other people as well as
for me. Indeed, it seems as if everybody is working

2S for everybody else,

Mr. K. It is just so. And if we should speak of
your clothing and of your books and of your amuse-

ments, we might number your servants by the tens
of thousands. Here, indeed, is the great difference
between a civilized people and a barbarous people.
In civilized life everybody is served by every-
body else. But the savage does everything for 5
himself. He raises his own corn, he prepares
his own food, he makes his own clothing, he
builds his own house. His wants are few and
simple. He has no servant but himself.

Henry, Haven't you forgotten his poor wife ? I lo
have heard that she is his servant.

Mr, K. That is true. In fact, she does the greater
part of his work, and she alone gets his breakfast.
There is nobody on the other side of the w^orld pick-
ing coffee berries for him. No ships are sailing i^
across the sea to bring him spices and sugar. No
steam cars are hurrying over the land, laden with
bread and meat for him. Do you think that he can
enjoy his breakfast as well as you do yours?

Henry. I don't see how he can. ^

Mr, K. Well, a great deal depends upon what a
person is accustomed to. The savage has never
known anything about the luxuries which we have,
and he would not know how to use them if he had
them. He enjoys himself in his own rude way ; but 26
his pleasures are few and selfish, and he knows
nothing of the real joys of life.

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.

Woodman, spare that tree !

Touch not a single bough !
In youth it sheltered me,

And ril protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand

That placed it near his cot ;
There, woodman, let it stand.

Thy ax shall harm it not !

That old familiar tree,

Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea,

And wouldst thou hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke !

Cut not its earth-bound ties ;
Oh, spare that aged oak

Now towering to the skies !

When but an idle boy,

I sought its grateful shade ;
In all their gushing joy

Here too my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here ;

My father pressed my hand ;
Forgive this foolish tear.

But let that old oak stand.

My heartstrings round thee cling,

Close as thy bark, old friend !
Here shall the wild bird sing,

And still thy branches bend.
Old tree ! the storm still brave !

And, woodman, leave the spot ;
While I've a hand to save.

Thy ax shall harm it not.

A LEAP FOR LIFE.

Old Ironsides at anchor lay

In the harbor of Mah6n ;
A dead calm rested on the bay.

The waves to sleep had gone,
When little Jack, the captain's son.

With gallant hardihood.
Climbed shroud and spar, and then upon

The main truck rose and stood.

A shudder ran through every vein.

All eyes were turned on high ;
There stood the boy with dizzy brain

Between the sea and sky.
No hold had he above, below ;

Alone he stood in ^iv !
At that far height none dared to go.

No aid could reach him there.

We gazed, but not a man could speak ;

With horror all aghast.
In groups, with pallid brow and cheek,

We watched the quivering mast.
The atmosphere grew thick and hot,

And of a lurid hue,
As, riveted fast to the spot,

Stood ofl&cers and crew.

The father came on deck. He gasped,

" God, thy will be done ! "
Then suddenly a rifle grasped.

And aimed it at his son.
"Jump far out, boy, into the wave.

Jump, or I fire ! " he said.
" That chance alone your life can save ;

Jump ! jump, boy ! " — He obeyed.

He sank, — he rose, — he lived, — he moved, -

He for the ship struck out.
On board we hailed the lad beloved

With many a joyous shout.
His father drew, in silent joy.

Those wet arms round his neck.
Then folded to his heart the boy,

And fainted on the deck.

— George P. Morris,

THE STAGECOACH.

Eighty years ago there were no such thipgs as

railroads ; and so, when Tom Brown was sent down

to Rugby to the famous boys' school which is there,

he had to ride in a stagecoach. The story of his

The ooaobiMD gMber op thei

journey is told in a delightful book called " Tom j
Brown's School Days." This book, which has given
pleasure to many thousands of young readers, was
written by Thomas Hughes, an Englishman ; and
the story of the ride to Rugby is about as follows :

It is three o'clock in the morning of a November lo
day, and Tom Brown and his father are in a little

wayside tavern waiting for the fast coach that is
expected to pass some time before daylight. Tom's
father has ordered a luncheon to be served, and their
last hour together has passed very pleasantly.
6 The lad has swallowed his last mouthful, and is
winding his comforter round his throat and tucking
the ends into the breast of his coat, when the sound
of the horn is heard. The next moment they hear
the ring and the rattle of the four fast trotters and
10 the town-made coach as they dash up to the door
of the tavern.

"Anything for us. Bob?" says the burly guard,
dropping down from behind and swinging his arms
to keep warm.
15 " Young gentleman, Rugby ; three parcels, Leices-
ter ; hamper of game, Rugby," is the answer.

" Tell the young gent to look alive," says the
guard, throwing in the parcels. *'Here, make a
place for this satchel up a-top — I'll fasten it soon.
20 Now then, sir, jump up behind."

"Good-bye, father — my love at home."

A last shake of the hand.

Up goes Tom, the guard catching his hat box and
holding on with one hand, while with the other he
26 claps the horn to his mouth.

Toot, toot, toot! the four bays plunge forward,
and away goes the tallyho into the darkness.

Tom stands up on the coach and looks back at his
father as long as he can see him there under the
flaring tavern lamp. He wonders if the folks at
home have already begun to miss him. Then he
settles himself in his seat, and finishes his buttonings 5
and other preparations for facing the three hom-s
before dawn ; — no joke for those who cared for the
cold, this riding on a fast coach in chilly November.

But it had its pleasures, the old dark ride. For
there was the music of the rattling harness, and the 10
ring of the horses' feet on the hard road, and the
glare of the two bright lamps through the steaming
frost, and the cheery toot of the guard's horn, and
the looking forward to daylight, and last, but not
least, the delight of having the feeling return to 15
your numbed toes which you thought had certainly
been frozen oflf your feet. Then the break of dawn,
and the sunrise ; where can they ever be seen so well
as from the roof of a stagecoach ?

And now the tall3^ho is past St. Alban's, and Tom 20
is enjoying the ride, though half-frozen. The guard,
who is alone with him on the back of the coach, is
silent, but has muffled Tom's feet up in straw, and
put the end of an oat sack over his knees. In the
darkness, Tom has gone over his little past life, and 25
thought of all his doings and promises, and of his
mother and sister, and his father's last words. He

has made fifty good reaoliitions, and means to bear
himself like a brave Brown as he is, although a young
one. He is full of hope and life, in spite of the
cold, and kicks his heels against the A
■ back board, and would like to sing '
only he doesn't know how his friend
the guard might take it.

And now the dawn breaks, and
the coach pulls up at a little road

JO side inn with huge stables behind
There is a bright fire gleaming
through the red curtains of the win
dows, and the door is open. The
coachman catches his whip into a

ifi double thong and throws it aside '

the steam of the horses rises straight ''

up into the air. He has put them along fast, over
the last two miles, and is two minutes before his
time ; he rolls down from the box and into the inn.

20 The guard rolls off behind. " Now, sir," says he
to Tom, "you just jump down and warm yourself up
a bit ! ". . .

But they are soon out again, and up. The coach-
man comes last, swinging himself up on to the box

29 — the horses dashing off in a canter before he falls

into hU seat. Toot, toot, toot ! goes the horn, and
away they are again, five and thirty miles on their
road, and the prospect of a warm breakfast soon.

Now it is hght enough to see, and the early life of
the country comes out — a market cart or two, men b
going to their work pipe in mouth, a pack of hounds
jogging along at the heels of a huntsman.

The sun comes up, and the mist shines like silver
gauze. An up coach meets them, and the coachmen
gather up their horses and pass one another with an
lift of the elbow, each team going eleven mUes an
hour, with a mile to spare behind if necessary.

And here comes breakfast.

*' Twenty minutes here, gentlemen ! " says the
coachman, as they pull up at half-past seven atv
the mn door.

There is the low wainscoted room
hung with sporting prints ; the hat-
stand by the door ; the blazing fire ; the
table covered with the whitest of cloths 9
and china, and bearing a pigeon pie, a
ham, a round of cold boiled beef, and
the great loaf of household bread on
a wooden trencher. And here comes
the stout head waiter puffing under a tray of hot*

foods : chops and steaks, poached eggs, buttered toast
and muffins, coffee and tea, — all smoking hot.

The table can never hold it all ; the cold meats
are taken away — they were only put on for show
i and to give us an appetite. And now fall on,
gentlemen, fall on !

" Tea or coffee, sir ? " says the head waiter, com-
ing round to Tom.
" Coffee, please," says Tom, with his mouth full of
» muffin and chops.

Our coachman, who breakfasts with us, is a cold-
beet man, and he shuns all hot drinks. He must
keep his nerves in trim for the long drive that is
still before him. Tom lias eaten of the
ispigeon pie, and drank coffee, till his little i K*J^%|]^'{

skin is as tight as a drum. Then 1

has the further pleasure of paying th

head waiter out of his own purse, afte:

which he walks out and stands before
'"the inn door to see the horses put to

the coach. No hurry about this. The

coachman comes out with his waybill ;

and the guard is soon there, too.

"Now, sir, please ! " says the coachman. All the

* passengers are up; the guard is shutting the door.

The horses are impatient to be going.
" Let 'em go, Dick ! "

Away we fly through the market place and down
the High Street, looking in at the first-floor windows,
and seeing several worthy gentlemen shaving before
them. And, as we rattle past, all the shopboys who
are cleaning the windows, and the housemaids who
are washing the steps, stop and look pleased as if
we were a part of their morning's amusement.

We clear the town, and are well out between the
hedgerows as the town clock strikes eight. Before
noon, we shall be in Rugby. jt

THE ENGLISH SLAVE BOYS IN ROME.

^♦^ \Vhen the English people first settled in the
^^a 's'^"d which is now called England, they were
little better than savages. They were a
heathen people, and worshiped Odin and
Thor, and had many rude and cruel cus-"'
toms. This was more than fourteen hun-
I dred years ago.

It so happened that, some time later,
there was living in Rome a good and kind
priest whose name was Gregory. As this*
^°^' priest was one day walking in the market
place, he stopped to see some men, women, and

children who had been brought from a distant
land and were to be sold as slaves. Among them
were some beautiful boys, with fair skin and long
fair hair. Their looks so pleased him that he could
not pass them by. He asked from what part of the
world they came, and whether they were Christians
or heathen. He was told that they were heathen
boys from the islandof Britain. Gregory was sorry
to think that forms so fair without should have no

light witliin, and he again asked what was |^.
the name of their nation.

"They are Angles," was the answer —
for that was the old form of the word
English.

"Angels ! " cried Gregory ; " they have the
faces of angels, and they ought to be made .W
fellow heirs of the angels in heaven. But ri
what is the name of their king?"

"He is called jElla," said one who stood by.

1 " ^lla ! Surely, then, Alleluia must be sung in
his land."

Gregory then went to the Pope and asked if he
would not let him go to England to convert the
Angles who lived there. The Pope was willing ;
1 but the people loved Gregory so much that they
would not agree to part with him. So nothing
came of the matter for some time.

Away we fly through the market place and down
the High Street, looking in at the first-floor windows,
and seeing several worthy gentlemen shaving before
them. And, as we rattle past, all the shopboys who
are cleaning the windows, and the housemaids who s
are washing the steps, stop and look pleased as if
we were a part of their morning's amusement.

We clear the town, and are well out between the
hedgerows as the town clock strikes eight. Before
noon, we shall be in Rugby. lo

THE ENGLISH SLAVE BOYS IN ROME.

When the English people first settled in the
ishmd which is now called England, they were
little better than savages. They were a
heathen people, and worshiped Odin and
Thor, and had many rude and cruel cus- lo
toms. This was more than fourteen hun-
I dred years ago.

It so happened that, some time later,
" there was living in Rome a good and kind
priest whose name was Gregory. As this so
priest was one day walking in the market
place, he stopped to see some men, women, and

children who had been brought from a distant
land and were to be sold as slaves. Among them
were some beautiful boys, with fair skin and long
fair hair. Their looks so pleased him that he could

s not pass them by. He asked from what part of the
world they came, and whether they were Christians
or heathen. He was told that they were heathen
boys from the island-of Britain. Gregory was sorry
to think that forms so fair without should have no

10 light within, and he again asked what whs
the name of their nation.

"They are Angles," was the answer —
for that waa the old form of the word
English.

13 "Angels ! " cried Gregory ; " they have the
faces of angels, and they ought to be made
fellow heirs of the angels in heaven. But
what is the name of their king ? "

" He is called JE\\&," said one who stood by.

20 " --Ella ! Surely, then, Alleluia must be sung in
his land."

Gregory then went to the Pope and asked if he
would not let him go to England to convert the
Angles who lived there. The Pope was wUling ;

3B but the people loved Gregory so much that they
would not agree to part with him. So nothing
came of the matter for some time.

We do not know whether Gregory was ever able
to do anything for the poor little English boys, but
we may be sure that he did not forget his plan of
converting the English people. After a while he 5
became pope himself. Of course he now no longer
thought of going to Britain himself, for he had
enough to do at Rome. But he could send others.

At last a company of monks was sent out, with
one called Augustine at their head. This was inio
the year 597. At that time England was not a
single great nation as it is now. It was divided into
several small kingdoms, and these were nearly all the
time at war. One of these kingdoms was Kent, in
the southeastern part of the island, and its king, is
whose name was Ethelbert, had made himself master
of nearly all the other kings.

This Ethelbert had done what no English king
had done before : he had married a foreign wife, the
daughter of one of the kings of the Franks, who 20
lived in the country now called France. Now the
Franks had long been Christians ; and when Ethel-
bert's young queen went over into Kent, it was
agreed that she might keep her own religion. So
she took with her a Frankish bishop, and she and 25
her bishop used to worship God in a little church
near Canterbury, called Saint Martins.

So King Ethelbert and his people must have known

something about the Christian faith before Augustine

came. One would suppose that it would have been

easier for the queen's bishop to convert them than

$ for Augustine to do so. But perhaps they did not

think that a man who had come only as a kind of

servant to the queen, was so well worth listening to

as one who had come all the way from the great

city of Rome.

10 Augustine and his companions landed first in the

Isle of Thanet, which is close to the eastern shore

of Kent, and thence they sent a message to King

Ethelbert saying why they had come into his land.

The king sent word back to them to stay in the

15 isle till he had fully made up his mind how to treat

them ; and he gave orders that they should be well

taken care of meanwhile.

After a while he came himself into the isle, and
bade them tell him what they had to say. He
20 met them in the open air; for he would not meet
them in a house, as he thought they might be wiz-
ards, and might use some charm or spell, which
would have less power out of doors. So they
came, carrying a cross wrought in silver, and sing-
26ing hymns as they came. And when they came
before the king, they preached to him and to those
who were with him, telling them, no doubt, how

100

there was one God, who had made all things, and
how He had sent His son to die for mankind.

King Ethelbert hearkened to them, and then made
answer like a good and wise man.

" Your words and promises," said he, " sound very s
good unto me ; but they are new and strange, and I
can not believe them all at once, nor can I leave all
that I and my fathers have believed so long. But I
see that you have come from a far country to tell
us that which you believe to be true; so you mayio
stay in the land, and I will give you a house to
dwell in and food to eat ; and you may preach to
my folk, and if any man of them will believe as you
believe, I will hinder him not."

So he gave them a house to dwell in in the royal 15
city of Canterbury, and he let them preach to the
people. And, as they drew near the city, they sang
hymns and said : " We pray Thee, Lord, let Thy
wrath be turned away from this city, and from Thy
holy house, because we have sinned. Alleluia ! " 20

Thus Augustine and his companions dwelt at Can-
terbury, and preached to the men of the land. And
many men hearkened to them, and before long King
Ethelbert himself believed and was baptized; and
before the year was out more than ten thousand of 26
the people had become Christians.

— Adapted from Edward A, Freeman.

101

THE UPRISING — 1775.

The first battle in the war for independence was fought at
Lexington and Concord, in Massachusetts, April 19, 1775.
Although there were no telegraph lines at that time, and no
means of sending letters rapidly from place to place, the news

5 of this battle spread like wildfire to all parts of the country.
The patriotic spirit of the people was roused. Farmers left
their plows, merchants and shopkeepers left their business —
there was a general uprising throughout the land to oppose
the unjust laws of the English king, and to drive his soldiers

10 from American soil. In this poem, which is extracted from
a longer poem entitled " The Wagoner of the Alleghanies,"
Thomas Buchanan Read narrates an incident which is sup-
posed to have occurred at that time in Virginia.

Out of the North the wild news came,
16 Far flashing on its wings of flame,
Swift as the boreal light which flies
At midnight through the startled skies.

And there was tumult in the air,

The fife's shrill note, the drum's loud beat,

^ And through the wide land everywhere
The answering tread of hurrying feet,
While the first oath of Freedom's gun
Came on the blast from Lexington ;
And Concord, roused, no longer tame,

25 Forgot her old baptismal name.

Made bare her patriot arm of power.
And swelled the discord of the hour.

102

Within its shade of elm and oak

The church of Berkeley Manor stood :
There Sunday found the rural folk,

And some esteemed of gentle blood.
. In vain their feet with loitering tread 5

Passed mid the graves where rank is naught ;

All could not read the lesson taught
In that republic of the dead.

The pastor rose : the prayer was strong ;

The psalm was warrior David's song ;

The text, a few short words of might, —

" The Lord of hosts shall arm the right ! **

He spoke of wrongs too long endured,

Of sacred rights to be secured ;

Then from his patriot tongue of flame is

The startling words for Freedom came,

The stirring sentences he spake

Compelled the heart to glow or quake ;

And, rising on his theme's broad wing,

And grasping in his nervous hand 20

The imaginary battle brand.
In face of death he dared to fling
Defiance to a tyrant king.
Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed
In eloquence of attitude, 26

Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher ;

108

Then swept hU kindling glance of fire
From startled pew to breathless choir ;
When suddenly his mantle wide
His hands impatient flung aside,
And, lo ! he met their wondering eyes
Complete in all a warrior's guise.

" Wlun Ood ii iritli ota righWou

A moment there was awful pause, —

When Berkeley cried, " Cease, traitor ! cease !
God's temple is the house of peace ! "
The other shouted, " Nay, not so,
When God is with our righteous cause :
His holiest places then are ours,
His temples are our forts and towers

104

That frown upon a tyrant foe :

In this the dawn of Freedom's day . ,

There is a time to fight and pray ! "

And now before the open door —

The warrior priest had ordered so —
The enlisting trumpet's sudden roar
Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er,

Its long reverberating blow,
So loud and clear, it seemed the ear
Of dusty death must wake and hear.
And then- the startling drum and fife
Fired the living with fiercer life ;
While overhead with wild increase.
Forgetting its ancient toll of peace.

The great bell swung as ne'er before :
It seemed as it would never cease ;
And every word its ardor flung
From off its jubilant iron tongue

Was, "War! War! War!"

" Who dares " — this was the patriot's cry,
As striding from the desk he came —
" Come out with me in Freedom's name.
For her to live, for her to die ? "
A hundred hands flung up reply,
A hundred voices answered "II"

105

SIF'S GOLDEN HAIR.

I. THE MISCHIEF-MAKER.

This is a story which the people in the far North,

a long time ago, delighted to listen to when sitting

before their fires on cold

winter days. It made

5 the TO think of the warm

spring weather that was

corning by and by, of the

green grass that would

cover the meadows, and

10 more than all of the

golden harvest that would

crown the summer time.

For Sif was the queen of

the fields and of the

IS gi^owing grain, just as hev

husband, rough old Thor,

Was the lord of the storm

clouds and the thunder; and

people said that she was as
JO gentle and kind as he was rude

and strong.
Sif was very fair ; and there was one thing of

which she was a trifle vain. That was her long silken

hair, which fell in glossy waves almost to her feet.
26 On calm, warm days she liked to sit on the bank

106

of some still pool and gaze at her own beauty pic-
tured in the water below, while she combed and
braided her flowing tresses; and in all the world
there was nothing so much like golden sunbeams as
the hair of which she was so proud. 6

At that time there was living in the same coun-
try a cunning mischief-maker called Loki, who was
never pleased save when he was plotting trouble for
some one who was better than himself. He liked
to meddle with business which was not his own. lo
His tricks and jokes were seldom of the harmless
kind, although great good . sometimes grew out of
them.

When Loki saw how proud Sif was of her long
hair, and how much time she spent in combing and i5
arranging it, he planned a very cruel piece of mis-
chief. One day he hid himself among the rocks
near the pool where Sif was sitting, and slyly
watched her all the morning as she braided and
unbraided those wonderful silken tresses. At last, 20
overcome by the warmth of the noonday sun, Sif
fell asleep upon the grassy bank. Then Loki
quietly crept near, and with his sharp shears cut
off all that wealth of hair, and shaved her head
until it was as smooth as her snow-white hand. 25
Then he hid himself again, and chuckled with great
glee at the wicked thing he had done.

107

By and by Sif awoke, and looked into the water;
but she started back. with horror and affright at the
image which she saw there. She felt of her shorn
head; and, when she knew that that which had

5 been her joy and her pride was no longer there,
she knew not what to do. Hot, scalding tears ran
down her cheeks, and with sobs and shrieks she
began to call loudly for Thor. Forthwith there
was a terrible uproar. The lightning flashed, the

10 thunder rolled, and an earthquake shook the rocks
arid trees. Loki, looking out from his hiding
place, saw that Thor was coming, and he trembled
with fear ; for he knew that should the great
thunderer catch him, he would have to pay dearly

16 for his sport. He ran quickly to the river, leaped
in, changed himself to a salmon, and swam away.

But Thor was not so easily deceived ; for he had
long known Loki, and understood all his cunning.
So when he saw Sif bewailing her stolen hair and

20 beheld the salmon hurrying alone towards the deep
water, he was at no loss to understand what had hap-
pened. Straightway he took upon himself the form
of a sea gull, and soared high up over the water.
Then, poising a moment in the air, he darted, swift

26 as an arrow, down into the river. When he rose
from the water, he held the struggling salmon tightly
grasped in his strong talons.

108

" Vile mischief-maker ! " cried Thor, as he
alighted upon the top of a neighboring crag. ^^I
know thee, and I will make thee rue the work of
this day."

When Loki saw that he was known and that he i ^
dould not by any means get away from his angry
captor, he changed himself back to his own form,
and humbly said to Thor :

" What if you should do your worst with me ?
Will that give back a single hair to Sif's shorn lo
head ? What I did was only in fun, and I realty
meant no harm. I pray you, spare my life, and
I will more than make good the mischief I have
done."

" How can that be ? " asked Thor. i5

" I will hasten to the secret smithies of the dwarfs,"
answered Loki ; " and I will persuade those cunning
little kinsmen of mine to make golden tresses for
Sif, which will grow upon her head like real hair,
and cause her to be an hundred-fold more beautiful 2(
than before."

Thor knew that Loki did not always do as he
promised, and hence he would not let him go.
He called to his cousin Frey, who had just come up,
and said : 21

'' Come, cousin, help me to rid the world of this
sly thief. While I hold fast to his hair and his

Ill

"I do not work in gold. Go to Ivald's sons;
they will make whatever you wish."

To Ivald's sons, then, in the farthest and brightest
corner of the hall, Loki went. They very readily
5 agreed to make the golden hair for Sif, and they
began to work at once. A lump of purest gold was
brought and thrown into the glowing furnace ; and
it was melted and drawn, and melted and drawn,
seven times. Then it was given to a merry brown
10 elf, who carried it with all speed to another part of
the hall, where the dwarfs' pretty wives were spin-
ning. One of the little women took the yellow lump
from the elf's hands and placed it, like flax, upon the
distaff of her spinning wheel. Then she sat down
16 and began to spin ; and while she span, the dwarf
wives sang a strange, sweet song of the old, old days
when the dwarf folk ruled the world. And tiny
brown elves danced gleefully around the spinner, and
the thousand little anvils rang out a merry chorus to
20 the music of the singers.

And the yellow gold was twisted into threads, and

the threads ran into hair softer than silk and finer

^han gossamer. And at last the dwarf woman held

^n her hand long golden tresses ten times more beau-

^ tif ul than the amber locks Loki had cut from Sif 's

pi'etty head. Then Ivald's sons, proud of their skill,

g^ve the treasure to the mischief-maker, who smiled

and brighter than the day ; for on every side were
glowing fires, roaring in wonderful little forges and
blown by wonderful little bellows.

The roof of the cavern was thickly set with diar
monds and other precious stones, which sparkled and ^
shone like thousands of bright stars in the blue sky.
And hundreds of busy dwarfs, with comical brown
faces, and wearing strange leathern aprons, and
carrying heavy sledge hammers or long crooked tongs,
were hurrying hither and thither, each busy at hisio
own task. Some were smelting gold from the rocks ;
others were making gems and jewels, such as the
proudest lady in the land would have been glad to
wear. Here, one was shaping pure, round pearls
from dewdrops and maidens' tears; there, another i5
wrought green emeralds from the first leaves of
spring. So busy were they all, that they neither
stopped nor looked up when Loki came into their
midst, but all kept on hammering and blowing and
working, as if their lives depended on their being 2(
always in motion.

After Loki had curiously watched their movements
for some time, he spoke to the dwarf whose forge
was nearest to him, and made known his errand.
But the little fellow was fashioning a diamond which 21
he called the Mountain of Light; and he scarcely
looked up as he answered :

113

"We can not make it now/' said the elder of
Ivald's sons. " For who would dare send a present
to Thor before offering one to Odin, who is greater
than he ? "

" Make me, then, a gift for Odin," cried Loki ;
" and perhaps he will save me from the Thun-
derer's wrath."

So the dwarfs put iron into their furnace, and
heated it to a glowing white heat. Then they drew
it out and rolled it upon their anvils, and pounded it
with their sledges, till they had wrought a wondrous
spear, such as no man had ever seen. Then they
inlaid it with priceless jewels, and plated the point
with gold seven times tried.

" This is the spear called Gungner," said they.
"Take it to mighty Odin as the best gift that we
humble earth workers can send."

" Make now a present for gentle Frey," said Loki.
" I have promised to take him a steed that will bear
him swiftly wherever he wants to ride."

Ivald's sons again threw gold into the furnace, and
blew with their bellows till the very roof of the cave
hall seemed to tremble, and the smoke rolled up the
wide chimney, and poured in dense black clouds from
the mountain top. When they left off working, and
the fire died away, a fairy ship, with masts and sails
and two banks of long oars, rose out of the glow-
sen. READ. IX. 8

as if he were well pleased ; but in his heart he was
angry because the dwarfs had made so fair a piece of
workmanship.

It down and bvgui to ipln.

Thi-t IS indeed
handsnme, siid he, e
" and will be veiy becoming
to the queen of the fields.
Ah, but wasn't there an up-
roar about those flaxen tresses of which she was so
proud ? And that reminds me that her husband, gruff «
old Thor, wants a hammer. I promised to get him
one, and if I go back without it, I fear he will be
rude to me. I pray you to make a hammer, such as
will be of use to him in killing giants, and allow me
to take it to him as a present from you," n

113

"We can not make it now/' said the elder of
Ivald's sons. " For who would dare send a present
to Thor before offering one to Odin, who is greater
than he ? "
' ^^Make me, then, a gift for Odin," cried Loki;
^^and perhaps he will save me from the Thun-
derer's wrath."

So the dwarfs put iron into their furnace, and
heated it to a glowing white heat. Then they drew
*^ it out and rolled it upon their anvils, and pounded it
with their sledges, till they had wrought a wondrous
spear, such as no man had ever seen. Then they
inlaid it with priceless jewels, and plated the point
with gold seven times tried.
15 " This is the spear called Gungner," said they.
"Take it to mighty Odin as the best gift that we
humble earth workers can send."

" Make now a present for gentle Frey," said Loki.
" I have promised to take him a steed that will bear
20 him swiftly wherever he wants to ride."

Ivald's sons again threw gold into the furnace, and
blew with their bellows till the very roof of the cave
hall seemed to tremble, and the smoke rolled up the
wide chimney, and poured in dense black clouds from
25 the mountain top. When they left off working, and
the fire died away, a fairy ship, with masts and sails
and two banks of long oars, rose out of the glow-
sen. READ. IV. 8

114

ing coals ; and it grew in size till it filled the greater
part of the hall and might have furnished room
for a thousand warriors and their steeds to stand
in its hold. Then, at a word from the dwarfs, it
began to shrink, and it became smaller and smaller 5
till it was no broader than an oak leaf.

And the younger of Ivald s sons folded it up like a
napkin, and gave it to Loki, saying :

" Take this to Frey, the gentle. It is the ship
Skidbladner. When it is wanted for a voyage, 10
it will carry Frey and all his friends. But, when
it is not needed, he may fold it up, as I have done,
and carry it in his pocket."

" But I promised him a horse," said Loki.

^^And we send him a horse," answered the dwarf 1.1
— "a horse of the sea."

Although much disappointed because he had
gotten no present for Thor, Loki thanked the dwarfs
very heartily ; and taking the golden hair and the
spear and the ship, he started for home. 20

III. THE GlITTS OF THE ELVES.

Just before he reached the narrow doorway which
led out of the cavern, Loki met two elves much
smaller and much darker than any he had seen
before.

115

"What have you there?'' asked one of them,
whose name was Brok.

"Hair for Sif, a spear for Odin, and a ship for
Frey/' answered the mischief-maker.
6 " Let us see them/' said Brok.

Loki kindly showed them the strange gifts, and
told them that it was his belief that there was no
dwarf nor elf in all the world that had ever made
anything more wonderful.
lo '^ Who made these things ? " inquired Brok.

" Ivald's sons."

" Ah ! Ivald's sons sometimes do good work, but

there are others among us who can do better. My

brother Sindre, who stands here, can make three

16 other treasures much more wonderful than these."

" He can not ! " cried Loki.

" What will you wager that he can not ? " asked
Brok. "What will you wager against all the dia-
monds in the ceiling above us ? "
20 "What will I wager? Why, I will wager my
head that Sindre can do no such thing."

The three went straightway to Sindre's forge, and
the elf began his task. When the fire was roaring
hot and the sparks flew from the chimney like
26 showers of shooting stars, Sindre put a pigskin into
the furnace, and bade Brok blow the bellows with
all his might, and never stop until he should speak

116

the word. The flames leaped up white and hot,
and the furnace glowed with a dazzling light, while
Brok plied the bellows, and Sindre, with unblinking
eyes, watched the slowly changing colors which
played around the melted mass within. While the e
brothers were thus intent upon their work, Loki
changed himself to a huge horsefly, and, settling
upon Brok's hand, bit him without mercy. But
the brave fellow kept on blowing the bellows, and
stopped not till his brother cried out: ic

^^ Enough!"

Then Sindre drew out of the flames a huge wild
boar with long tusks of ivory, and golden bristles
that glittered like the beams of the noonday sun.

" This is Golden Bristle," said Sindre. " It is the i5
gift of Brok and his brother to the gentle Frey.
The ship Skidbladner may carry him over the sea ;
but Golden Bristle shall be a trusty steed which
will bear him with the speed of the wind over the
land and through the air and whithersoever he may 20
wish to go."

Next the elfin smiths threw gold into the furnace,
and Brok plied the bellows and Sindre gazed into
the flames as before. And the great horsefly buzzed
in Brok's face, and darted at his eyes, and at last 25
settled upon his neck and stung him till the pain
caused big drops of sweat to roll off his forehead.

117

But the brave fellow stopped riot nor faltered, till
his brother agam cried out :

" Enough ! ''

This time Sindre drew out a wondrous ring of
solid gold, sparkling all over with the rarest and
most costly jewels.

" This is the ring Draupner," said he. " Every
ninth day eight other rings, equal to it in every
way, will drop from it. Wheresoever it is carried, it
»^o will enrich the earth and make the desert blossom as
a rose ; a^nd it will bring plentiful harvests and fill
the farmers' barns with grain and their houses with
good cheer. Take it, brother Brok, to Odin as the
best gift of the elves to him and to mankind."
16 Lastly the smiths took iron which had been brought
from the mountains of the far North ; and after beat-
ing it upon their anvils until it glowed white and
hot, Sindre threw it into the furnace.

^^This shall be the gift of gifts," said he to Brok.
20 " Ply the bellows as before, and do not for your life
stop or falter until the work is finished."

But as Brok blew the bellows, and his brother
gazed into the glowing fire, the horsefly came again.
This time it bit Brok's eyelids till the blood filled
25 his eyes and ran down his cheeks, and blinded him
so that he could not see. At last, In sore distress
and wild with pain, Brok let go of the bellows, and

118

lifted his hand to drive the fly away. Then Sindre
drew his work out of the furnace. It was a blue
steel hammer, well made in every way, save that
the handle was half an inch too short.

" This is Mjolner, or the Crusher," said Sindre to 5-
Loki, who had again taken his proper shape. " Thor,
the thunderer, may have the hammer which you
promised him; but it shall be our gift, and not
yours. The stoutest giant can not stand against him
who is armed with this hammer, nor is any shield or lO'
armor proof against its lightning strokes."

And Brok took the three treasures which Sindre
had fashioned, and went back with Loki to the dwell-
ing of Thor in the distant North. And they chose
Odin and Thor and Frey to examine and judge which 15
was best, — Loki's three gifts, the work of Ivald's
sons, or Brok's three gifts, the work of Sindre.

When the judges were seated, Loki went forward
and gave to Odin the spear Gungner, that would
always hit the mark ; and to Frey he gave the ship 20
Skidbladner, that would sail whithersoever he wished.
Then he gave the golden hair to Thor, who placed it
upon the head of fair Sif ; and it grew there, and
was a thousand-fold more beautiful than the silken
tresses of which she had been so proud. , 25

" Where is the hammer that you promised to bring
me?" asked Thor angrily. But Loki did not answer.

119

After the judges had looked carefully at these
treasures and talked about the beauty and the value
of each, little Brok came humbly forward and offered
his gifts. To Odin he gave the ring Draupner,
already dropping riches. To Frey he gave the boar
Golden Bristle, telling him that wherever he chose to
go, this steed would serve him well, and would carry
him faster than any horse. And then to Thor he
gave the Crusher, and said that it, like Odin's spear,
o would always hit the mark, crushing in pieces what-
ever it struck, and that whithersoever it might be
hurled, it would always come back to its owner's
hand again.

The judges declared at once that the hammer and

15 the boar and the ring were the best gifts, and that

Brok had fairly won the wager. But when the elf

demanded Loki's head as the forfeit, the cunning

mischief-maker laughed, and answered :

" My head is, by the terms of our agreement,
20 yours; but my neck is my own, and you shall not on
any account touch or harm it."

So Brok went back to his brother and his glowing

forge without the head of Loki ; but he was loaded

with rich and rare presents from Thor and golden-

25 haired Sif .

— From " The Story of Siegfried,^' by permission of Messrs.
Charles Scribner^s Son&

THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS.

When o'er the silent seas alone,
For days and nights we've cheerless gone,
Oh, they who've felt it know how sweet,
Some sunny morn a sail to meet.

Sparkling at once is ev'ry eye,
" Ship ahoy ! ship ahoy ! " our joj'ful cry ;
While answering back the sounds we hear,
"Shipahoy! shipahoy! whatcheer? whatcheer?

Then sails are back'd, we nearer come,
Kind words are said of friends and home;
And soon, too soon, we part with pain.
To sail o'er silent seas again.

— Thomas Moore.

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

Those evening bells ! those evening bells 1
How many a tale their music tells.
Of youth and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime.

Those joyous hours are

passed away ;
And many a heart that

then was gay.
Within the tomb now

darkly dwells,
And hears no more those

evening bells.

And so 'twill be when

I am gone ;
That tuneful peal will ihomM Moor

still ring on,
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.

Few poets of the nineteenth century have equaled Thomas
Moore- in the power to combine words of a commonplace
IS character into poetry, which charms the inner ear by its
delightful cadence. The two poems here given are from his
"National Aira." In reading them, observe the exquisite har-
mony of the words, and their perfect adaptation to the thoughts
which they express and inspire.

122

SEARCHING FOR GOLD AND FINDING

A RIVER.

Three hundred and fifty years ago this country
of ours was a wild land of woods and prairies and
swamps. There were no broad farms nor busy
towns nor roads from place to place ; but the only
inhabitants were Indians, and wild beasts were to 5
be found everywhere.

The people of Europe did not know much about
America, for it had been only a few years since
Columbus had shown them the way to it. They
knew nothing about its great rivers or its lofty 10
mountains; nor did they know how far it reached
to the north or south or west. They thought of
it only as a place where there was much gold and
silver, which might be had by fighting the Indians
and taking it from them. is

As the country had been discovered by the
Spanish, it was said to belong to Spain ; and
nearly all the earliest comers were Spaniards who
came in search of gold. Among them was a daring
young man whose name was Ferdinand de Soto. He 2^
made two or three visits to America, and each time
gained a great deal of wealth. But he was not satis-
fied ; for he wanted to explore the country north of
the Gulf of Mexico, where no white man had yet

128

ventured, and see whether he might not win still
more riches and renown.

He therefore fitted out some ships i
style, with everything that was needed to
5 conquer this new and unknown country.
Great numbers of men were anxious to go
with him, for everyone expected to find
a land that was rich in gold and sil-
ver and precious things. The ships
10 reached the western coast of Florida
early in the spring, and De Soto and
his followers went on shore, full of ^.^b^ a. Soto,
high hopes and great expectations.

Everything was taken out of the ships : food
15 and clothing, firearms and horses, a drove of hogs —
the first ever seen in this country, — dogs for chasing
the Indians, and whatever else might be of use in
conquering and despoiling the land. Then, in order
that no one should think of running away from
^danger, all the ships were sent back to Cuba. The
men now knew that they must make the best of
things or perish.

Soon the hunt for gold began. The country

heing unknown to the Spaniards, they were obliged

^to trust to Indian guides whom they forced to go

with them. These guides led them into all sorts

o£ dangerous places — sometimes through dismal

124

swamps where they were almost buried in the boggy
ground, sometimes into trackless woods where they
wandered for days uncertain which way to go.

Not much gold could they find in a land like this,
and they did not care for anything else. Before 5
the summer was fairly over, the most of the men
were ready to give up the undertaking and go home.
But De Soto would not listen to them. And, indeed,
how could they go home, now that the ships had
sailed away ? 10

Early the next spring they started again. They
had found a new guide, who promised to lead them
to a country that was full of gold and was governed
by a queen. But although they traveled far, the
Spaniards never came to such a country. They passed is
through pleasant valleys where there were wild
fruits in plenty, and myriads of beautiful flowers
and singing birds ; then they were obliged to cross
deep rivers and dangerous swamps, and to make
their way through dark forests and tangled thickets, 20
where many of them perished.

Instead of fine cities and stores of gold, they
found only a few poor Indian wigwams and dens
of savage beasts. Winter came again, and as they
were now much farther north, it was longer and 25
colder than any they had ever known. But they
took a little Indian village from its owners, fitted

up the wigwams and built a few log huts, and made

themselves as comfortable as they could until spring.

When they wei-e ready to start again, De Soto

called before him the Indian chief in whose country

5 they were, and bade him furnish a number of

men to go with the Spaniards and carry

their arms and goods. That very night,

when all were asleep, the village was set

on fire. Eleven men were burned

10 to death or were killed by the

Indians ; nearly all the horses

perished ; and the greater part

of their arms and clothing was

lost. But these losses only made

15 De Soto the more determined not to give

up the search for gold.

At length, those of the party who had lived

through the hardships of a two years* march, came

to the banks of a mighty river — the largest river

atthey had ever seen. It was the Mississippi, the

Father of Waters, as the Indians called it. So far

as is certainly known, they were the first white men

who had ever beheld it.

This was in the summer of 1541.

* Two hundred canoes filled with Indians came

froia the other side of the river, bringing fish and

fruits to give to the white strangers. De Soto set

127

up a wooden cross near the shore, and claimed all
the country for the king of Spain. And here the
Spaniards staid nearly a month, building a boat
that would be large enough and strong enough to
5 carry the horses over to the other shore.

At last, having safely crossed the great river, they
started again on the long search for gold. First they
went north, then west, then south, and then back
toward the river. New dangers and difficulties con-
10 fronted them at every turn. Men and horses per-
ished, and when De Soto at last came again to the
banks of the Mississippi, he was almost alone.

*• I am no common man," he said to an Indian
chief who met him there. " I am a child of the
16 sun. I can do anything that I choose, and no one
can hinder me."

" Dry up the great river, and then I will believe

you," said the Indian.

The hot days of summer came, and De Soto was

20 taken sick and died. The few Spaniards who were

still alive kept his death a secret ; for they feared

lest the Indians, knowing how little they could do

without their leader, would make an attack upon

them. One dark night they put his body into a boat

25 and, rowing out to the middle of the stream, dropped

It overboard into the great river which he had found

^hile searching for gold.

128

BEAVERS AT HOME.

A beaver is a small animal about three feet in

length. It is covered with fine, glossy, dark brown

fur. Its tail is nearly a foot long, and has no hair

at all, but only little scales,

something like a fish. This »

tail is of great use to the

I)eaver, for it serves as a

trowel, an alarm bell, and

many other things besides.

A beaver can not bear to m
live alone. He is never so
happy as when he' has two
or three hundred friends
close at hand whom he can
visit every day and all day; i^
for Ijeavers are the best and
kindest neighbors in the
world, always ready to help
one another in building new
houses or in repairing old s<
ones.
Of course the first thing to be done when one is
going to build a house or a village is to fix on a suit-
able site for it ; and the spot which every beaver of
sense thinks most desirable is either a large pond, a'
or, if no pond is to be had, a low plain with a

129

stream running through it. For out of such a plain,
a pond can be made.

It must be a very, very long time since beavers

first learned that the way to make a pond out of

5 a stream is to build a dam across it. To begin

with, they must know which way the stream runs,

and in this they never make a mistake.

They first gather together a number of stakes
about five feet long, which they fix in rows tight in
10 the ground on each side of the stream. While the
older beavers are doing this, — for the safety of the
village lies in the strength of the foundation, —
the younger ones are fetching and heaping up many
green branches of trees. These branches are woven
15 in and out among the rows of stakes, which by this
time reach across the stream, and a dam is formed,
perhaps a hundred feet in length.

When the foundation has been finished, the bea-
vers pile stones, clay, and sand upon it until they
•-'ohave built a wall ten or twelve feet thick at the
bottom and two or three feet thick at the top.
After all this has been done, the overseer or head
beaver goes carefully over every part to see if the
dam is of the right shape and is everywhere smooth
^^ni even; for beavers do not like poor work, and
^tiy who are lazy or careless are sure to be punished.
When the dam has been finished and the pond made,

sen. READ. IV. —

180

the beavers begin to think about their houses. As
they have a great dislike to damp floors, they have
to raise their dwellings quite six or eight feet above
the water, so that when the stream rises during the
rainy season they will still be dry and comfortable. 6

Beavers are always quite clear in their minds as
to what they want, and how to get it, and they like
to keep things distinct. When they are in the
water, they are as happy as they can be ; but when
they are out of it, they like to be dry. It is some- lo
times two or three months before the village is fin-
ished. But the little round huts are to be used only
for winter homes; for no beaver would think of
sleeping indoors during the summer, or, indeed, of
staying two days in the same place. 15

All that a beaver does is well done. The walls
of his house are about two feet thick, and when he
has a large family or many friends to stay with him
the house is sometimes three stories high. No bea-
ver ever thinks of keeping house alone. Sometimes 2c
he will have one companion, and sometimes as many
as thirty. But however full a hut may be, every-
thing is kept in good order. Each beaver has his
fixed place on the floor, which is covered with dry
leaves and moss. A door is always kept open into 21
the place where their food is kept, and so they never
go hungry. There they lie all through the winter,

181

eating the bark and tender shoots of young trees
which they have carefully stored away, sleeping
through the cold stormy weather, and at last get-
ting very fat.
5 At one time there were many beavers in the West
and the South, but now there are very few to be
found there. Many years ago a Frenchman who was
traveling in Louisiana spent a good deal of time in
watching beavers and learning about their ways.
10 He hid himself close to a dam which the little crea-
tures had built, and in the night he cut a hole about
a foot wide right through it.

He had made no noise while cutting through the

dam, but the rush of the water aroused one beaver

15 who was not sleeping as soundly as the others.

This beaver left his hut quickly, and swam to the

dam to see what was wrong. As soon as he saw the

channel that had been dug, he struck four loud

blows with his tail, and every beaver in the village

*Jeft his bed and rushed out in answer to the call.

W'hen they reached the dam and saw the large hole

^Ji it, they took counsel as to what they should do.

Then the head beaver gave orders to the rest, and

^U went to the bank to make mortar.

^ When they had made as much mortar as they

^ould carry, they loaded each other's tails, and form-

•

^^g in line marched to the dam. The mortar was

placed in the hole and driven down tight by blows
from the beavers' tails. So hard did they work,
and so much sense did they show, that in a short
time the dam was as good as ever. Then one of
the older beavers struck two blows with his tail, and i
in a few minutes all were in bed and asleep again.
— Adapted from "Animal Biography" 6y William Bingley.

THE IRON HORSE.

See him as he stands on the track, ready to begin
the race ! Did any war horse ever look prouder,
stand firmer, brace
himself so bravely w
for the onset?

He breathes short
and quick, filling his
lungs with air and
puffing it out through is
his flaming nostrils.
He swallows his food
at a gulp — black stones which become red fire in
his great stomach. He drinks more water than a
dozen camels making ready for a desert journey, ao
He is restive, and yet easy to be controlled. He

188

trembles with impatience. With his fifty tons'
weight he shakes the earth around him.

See his iron sinews, how tense, how ready for
action they are ! and think of the wonderful power
5 that lies dormant within them, soon to be awakened
to energetic life !

And now the master gives the word — it is only

a motion of his hand. The steed whinnies with

delight, he moves, he starts. No spur, nor whip,

10 nor guiding rein for him ! If he has plenty to eat

and drink, he will do whatever he is bidden.

See how steadily and with what force he moves at

the beginning of the race ! His momentum becomes

greater with every movement of those iron muscles ;

16 his speed increases; he neighs with delight as his

master gives him the reins.

On, on, thou swifter than the west wind! On,
thou star chaser ! The fleetest steed in the world
can not overtake thee !
20 Snorting, neighing, puffing, whistling, he speeds
onward ; he crosses rivers without slacking his pace ;
he rushes through villages and towns, shrieking in
iis pride and never pausing ; he dives under moun-
tains, and his one great eye shines like a meteor in
^ the dark caverns through which he hastens.

Out he leaps again, with a roar and a crash and a
slxrill scream which wakens all the countryside and

184

is echoed far among the hills. But now, at another
motion of his master's hand, he slackens his speed ; he
curbs his wonderful power; his rattling pace becomes
a smooth, gliding movement ; he creeps ; he stops.

He has carried his master, his groom, and five s
hundred riders a distance of sixty miles in as many
minutes. Yet he is not tired. He pants and trem-
bles, it is true, but only because he is impatient to
be going again. The groom pats him on the back ;
he smooths his shining black side ; he polishes the lo
yellow stripes that girdle his body ; he looks lovingly
into his eye. Everybody admires him.

How docile is the great steed ! Although his
strength is equal to that of a thousand war horses,
his master can control it by the movement of a sin- 15
gle finger. How useful he is ! He is your best
servant. From the remotest corners of the world he
brings your food and clothing ; he will carry you to
any place you may choose to go.

How powerful he is ! He has made one neighbor- 20
hood of our whole great continent; he has pretty
well done away with distances; he has helped to
civilize the world. Who says that he is only a mass
of iron and steel, of senseless wheels and lifeless levers ?

In all the world there is no horse like the iron 25
horse.

— From " The Horse Fair,^^ by permission of The Century Co,

LITTLE BELL.

Piped the blackbird on the beechwood

spray,
" Pretty maid, slow wandering this way,

What's your name ? " quoth he.
"What's your name? It surely must

be told,
Pretty maid with showery curls of gold " ■
" Little Bell," said she.

Little Bell sat down beside the rockb
And tossed aside her gleaming, golden
locks.

" Bonny bird," quoth she,
" Sing me your best song before I go
*' Here's the very finest song I know

Little Bell," said he.

And the blackbird piped : you ne> er

heard
Half so gay a song from any bird —

Full of quips and wiles,
Now so round and rich, now soft and

slow.
All for love of that sweet face below,
Dimpled o'er with smiles.

And the while the bonny bird did pour
Hia full heart out freely o'er and o'er,

'Neath the morning skies,
In the little childish heart below
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,
And shine forth in happy overflow

From the blue, bright eyes.

Down the dell she tripped, and through the
gl iile

Pteped the squirrel from the hazel
•f shade.

And from out the tree,
'^wung and leaped, and frolicked, void
of fear, —
TV While bold blackbird piped, that
all might hear,
* Little Bell ! " piped he.

Little Bell sat down amid the fern :

" Squirrel, squirrel ! to your task return ;

Bring me nuts," quoth she.
Up, away the frisky squirrel hies,
Golden wood lights glancing in his eyes, —

And adown the tree.
Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by autumn's sun,
In the little lap, dropped one by one ; —

Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun !
" Happy Bell ! " pipes he.

Little Bell looked up and down the glade :
" Squirrel, squirrel, from the nut-tree shade.
Bonny blackbird, if you're not afraid,

Come and share with me ! "
Down came squirrel, eager for his fare,
Down came bonny blackbird, I declare !
Little Bell gave each his honest share ;

Ah ! the merry three ! "'. /

And the while these wo jdland " >■ --^^

playmates twain.
Piped and frisked from

bough to bough again,
'Neath the morning

skies,
In the little childish heart

below.
All the sweetness seemed

to grow and grow,
And shine out in happy

overflow
From her blue, bright eyes

By her snow-white cot at close of day,
Knelt aweet Bell, with folded palms, to pray.

BEAVERS AT HOME.
A beaver is a small animal about three feet in
length. It is covered with fine, glossy, dark brown
fur. Its tail is nearly a foot long, and has no hair
at all, but only little scales,
something like a fish. This b
tail is of great use to the
beaver, for it serves as a
trowel, an alarm bell, and
many other things besides.

A beaver can not bear to w
live alone. He is never so
happy as when he' has two
or three hundred friends
close at hand whom he can
visit every day and all day; i3
for beavers are the best and
kindest neighbors in the
world, always ready to help
one another in building new
iBe««»tHom.. housBS or in repairing old ai

ones.
Of course the first thing to be done when one i.s
going to build a house or a village is to fix on a suit-
able site for it ; and the spot which every beaver of
sense thinks most desirable i.^ either a large pond, a
or, if no pond is to be had, a low plain with a

stream running through it. For out of such a plain,
a pond can be made.

It must be a very, very long time since beavers
first learned that the way to make a pond out of

5 a stream is to build a dam across it. To besin
virith, they must know which way the stream runs,
and in this they never make a mistake.

They first gather together a number of stakes
about five feet long, which they fix in rows tight in

lo the ground on each side of the stream. While the
older beavers are doing this, — for the safety of the
village lies in the strength of the foundation, —
the younger ones are fetching and heaping up many
green branches of trees. These branches are woven

15 in and out among the rows of stakes, which by this
time reach across the stream, and a dam is formed,
perhaps a hundred feet in length.

When the foundation has been finished, the bea-
vers pile stones, clay, and sand upon it until they

•^•o have built a wall ten or twelve feet thick at the
bottom and two or three feet thick at the top.
After all this has been done, the overseer or head
beaver goes carefully over every part to see if the
dam is of the right shape and is everywhere smooth

25 and even ; for beavers do not like poor work, and

any who are lazy or careless are sure to be punished.

When the dam has been finished and the pond made,

sen. READ. IV. — 9

AOV

Beavers are always quite clear in their minds as
to what they want, and how to get it, and they like
to keep things distinct. When they are in the
water, they are as happy as they can be ; but when
they are out of it, they like to be dry. It is some- lo
times two or three months before the village is fin-
ished. But the little round huts are to be used only
for winter homes ; for no beaver would think of
sleeping indoors during the summer, or, indeed, of
staying two days in the same place. is

All that a beaver does is well done. The walls
of his house are about two feet thick, and when he
has a large family or many friends to stay with him
the house is sometimes three stories high. No bea-
ver ever thinks of keeping house alone. Sometimes 20
he will have one companion, and sometimes as many
as thirty. But however full a hut may be, every-
thing is kept in good order. Each beaver has his
fixed place on the floor, which is covered with dry
leaves and moss. A door is always kept open into 26
the place where their food is kept, and so they never
go hungry. There they lie all through the winter.

181

bating the bark and tender shoots of young trees
which they have carefully stored away, sleeping
through the cold stormy weather, and at last get-
ting very fat.

5 At one time there were many beavers in the West
and the South, but now there are very few to be
found there. Many years ago a Frenchman who was
traveling in Louisiana spent a good deal of time in
watching beavers and learning about their ways.

10 He hid himself close to a dam which the little crea-
tures had built, and in the night he cut a hole about
a foot wide right through it.

He had made no noise while cutting through the
dam, but the rush of the water aroused one beaver

15 who was not sleeping as soundly as the others.
This beaver left his hut quickly, and swam to the
dam to see what was wrong. As soon as he saw the
channel that had been dug, he struck four loud
blows with his tail, and every beaver in the village

20 left his bed and rushed out in answer to the call.
When they reached the dam and saw the large hole
in it, they took counsel as to what they should do.
Then the head beaver gave orders to the rest, and
all went to the bank to make mortar.

25 When they had made as much mortar as they
could carry, they loaded each other's tails, and form-
ing in line marched to the dam. The mortar was

142

in spite of my high heels and ray tall hat, everybody
has the ill manners to call me a little man. It
makea me furious ! "

"Good! good!" cried the host. " I have a
mind to go along with you. I want to ask. b
the go^'ernor why it is that everybody calls me
the poor tavern keeper." Then, calling to the
hostler, he said, '*Here, John, you lazybones!
stir yourself quickly, and pack my valise. I
am going up to the city to see the governor." i
"Master," said the hostler, " I should like to
go too. I want to ask the governor why everybody
calls me lazybones."

On reaching the city, the three friends went at
once to the governor's house and asked to see the J
governor. The servant led them into the parlor,
where there was a very large mirror.

The governor listened to them very kindly,
and then said to the tavern keeper : " Turn
your back to this mirror ; then look over your 2
left shoulder, and tell rae what you see."

"What do I see!" cried the tavern keeper.

"Why, I see a dozen women sitting round a

table, and drinking tea, and talking. And tliere

is my wife, as sure as you ]i%'e !" , as

"Well, my friend," said the governor, "as long

as your wife spends her time in this way, you will

143

not only be called a poor tavern keeper, but you will
be a poor tavern keeper."

The hostler's turn came next. He stood up before
the mirror, and looked over his left shoulder.
5 " Ha, ha ! " he cried, " I see two dogs chasing a
hare. They think to catch him, but they'll have to
get up earlier in the morning if they do."

" Well, my friend," said the governor, " when you
run as fast as this hare every time an order is given
10 you, people will stop calling you lazybones."

And now the little gentleman came forward.

" What do you see ? " asked the governor.

" I see nothing but myself," he answered.

" Do you see yourself larger than you
15 are c

" No, I see myself just as I am."

" Well," said the governor, '' I have no

doubt but that other people see you the

same way. The only advice that I can

20 give you is to have yourself measured till

you have really grown larger, then people will stop
calling you little. Good-bye, my little man ! "

The little gentleman went away not so well pleased

as he wanted to be. But there are a good many

25 people who are no wiser than he. Did you never

hear of any one who thought to become great by

wearing fine clothes?

144

OUR COUNTRY.

Our country! 'tis a glorious land!

With broad arms stretched from shore to shon
The proud Pacific chafes her strand,

She hears the dark Atlantic roar ;
And, nurtured on her ample breast.

How many a goodly prospect lies
In Nature's wildest grandeur dressed,

Enameled with her loveliest dyes.

Rich prairies, decked with flowers of gold,

Like sunlit oceans roll afar ;
Broad lakes her azure heavens behold,

Reflecting clear each trembling star ;
And mighty rivers, mountain born,

Go sweeping onward, dark and deep.
Through forests where the bounding fawn

Beneath their sheltering branches leap.

Great God 1 we thank thee for this home.

This bounteous birth-land of the free ;
Where wanderers from afar may come,

And breathe the air of liberty !
Still may her flowers untrampled spring.

Her harvests wave, her cities rise ;
And yet, till Time shall fold his wing.

Remain earth's loveliest paradise !

146

SOMETHING ABOUT COTTON.

The South is the land of cotton, for there the soil
i climate are best fitted for its growth. Much
re cotton is raised in our warm southern states
n in all the rest of the world together. In
le years the crop is worth twice as much as all

gold and silver taken frbm our mines,
-let us visit one of the big plantations of South
olin^/ or Alabama, and see how cotton grows.
:*e is a field where the pickers are at work. The
.ks are from three to four feet high, and upon
se are the bolls which contain the cotton. The
Is on the limbs near the bottom are full-grown
L are about the size of walnuts with the hulls
. on. On the middle limbs are younger and
^Uer bolls that are rapidly growing larger. The

branches are covered with green leaves among
ich are still smaller bolls with here and there a
Dm. A few weeks ago the whole plant was cov-
3 with leaves, but as the stalk matures these drop

beginning with the lower branches where the
Ls first ripen. A field of ripening cotton is one
the most beautiful sights in the world. See the
'Sting bolls on the lower branches of the stalks!
' us go into the field and pick some of the bunches
Wnite which hang out as if ready to drop into our

SCH. READ. 4 — 10

146

hands. How easily they come out, and how soft and
clean the fibers are !

But what are those hard little things around which
some of the fibers cling so closely ? They are cotton
seeds, and are about as big as lemon seeds. They 5
must all be gotten out before the cotton can be sold.
A little later on, we shall learn how this is done.
The cotton " bloom " or blossom is shaped a little
like a hollyhock. On first opening, it is white ;
the next day it is a beautiful red, and drops off, i^
or rather is pushed off by the little boll
which follows it and contains the germ of
the cotton.

As soon as the older bolls on the lower
branches begin to ripen, " picking time " be- ^^
gins. In some places this occurs as early as

Cotton Plant ^^^^J' ^^^ ^^^ picking is continued through
the autumn months, and often until Christ-
mas. All this while the bolls are ripening and
opening, and the lint cotton, or staple as it is often 20
called, must be picked out as fast as possible. As
soon as a field is gone over, the laborers begin again
where they first started, and gather the cotton that
has opened since the former picking; and thus the
same field must be gone over many times. 25

After the cotton is picked it is carried in wagons
to the gin. This is a large box machine in which

are forty to sixty small circular saws which revolve
rapidly between as many rows of stiff brushes fas-
tened on cylinders. The saws cut the cotton
from the seeds, and the brushes pull it off
I from the teeth of the saws. The lint
cotton, or staple, is thrown out from
one side of the gin, and the seeds fall
on the other side.

The lint cotton is now ready for bal-
o ing. It is carried to the cotton press where nMug oottoi
it is " compressed " into packages about five
feet long, four feet wide, and two feet thick. These
packages are called bales and weigh from four hun-
dred to five hundred pounds each. Each bale is
15 wrapped in rough cloth, which looks much like
coffee sacking, and is bound with bands of hoop
iron. It is now ready to be sold and sent away
to be made into cloth.

But what becomes of the
Lotton seeds ? All are care-
fully saved. They are
mashed between rollers
issed in strong presses
imtil all the oil which they
"contain is squeezed out of them. The oil is used
la making soap, salids, and patent butters, and in
niixing paints, and for many other purposes. The

BalH of OoHan

148

inaKEi from which the oil iias been squeezed is ground
into cotton-seed ineal, and this, with the crushed
hulls from the seeds, is used for feeding cattle and
as a fertilizer. The cotton seed raised every year in
the South is wortl^many millions of dollars. s

Until late years, nearly all the great cotton mills
were in the northern and eastern states, and the
baled cotton was sent there
to be made into thread and
cloth. But now thereio"
are many large fac-
tories throughout the South.
The cotton states have good
■.(.■-•^ '-^:*?*^'!^^„ water power, and coal is
""°': "" ' abundant and cheap ; and sou

Old FathioDsd Cotton Pnii, , , ; , , ■ , ,

the cotton, being so near the
mills, the expense of carrying it from the plantations
is but small. All these advantages make it possible
for cotton goods to be manufactured more profitably
in the South than elsewhere. Still, there is so mucfc»'
cotton raised that the larger part of it must be sen,"*
away, some to the factories in the North and some t*^
those in Europe. Indeed, if all the gold that is du^^
in a single year were put in one pile, and all the cot:::^
ton and cotton goods that are sold during the sam-^*'
time to foreign countries were put in another, th-^^
cotton pile would be worth more than the gold.

MAGGIE TULLIVER AND THE GYPSIES.

In "The Mill on the Floss," a delightful book
which you will read before you are much older,
George Eliot has told us the story of Maggie Tulliver
and her brother Tom. They lived at Dorlcote Mill
s on the river Floss. One day they had a childish
quarrel, which brought about the adventure that is
here narrated.

Maggie resolved that she would not go home that
day. No ; she would run away and go to the

1* gypsies, and her brother Tom should never see her
any more. That was by no means a
new idea to Maggie ; she had b pti -
often told that she was like a g>p \
and "half wild," that when she w i-

M miserable it seemed to her tli il i"!
the only way ever to be happ}
again would be to live in a
little brown tent on the com-
mons; the gypsies, she thought,

» Would be glad to welcome her
and pay her respect on account o«"g« ^i""'-

of her superior knowledge. She had once spoken of
thia matter to Tom, and had gone so far as to suggest
that he should stain his face brown, and they should

150

run away together. But Tom had rejected the
scheme with contempt, saying that the gypsies were
thieves and that they had hardly anything to eat,
and nothing to drive but a donkey.

To-day, however, Maggie thought her misery had 5
reached a point at which gypsydom was her only
refuge : she would run straight away till she came to
Dunlow Common, where there would certainly be
gypsies; and cruel Tom, and the rest of her relations
who found fault with her, should never see her any lo
more. She thought of her father as she ran along
— but then, she would secretly send him a letter by
a small gypsy, who would run away without telling
where she was, and just let him know that she was
well and happy, and always loved him very much. is

The road seemed indeed very long, and Maggie, as
she wandered desperately on, became not only very
tired, but dreadfully hungry ; for she had eaten but
very little that day. ... At last, however, the green
fields came to an end, and she found herself looking 20
through the bars of a gate into a lane with a wide
margin of grass on each side of it. She had come
this long distance for the purpose of seeking her
unknown kindred, the gypsies; and now she was
in this strange lane, she hardly dared look on one 25
side of her lest she should see one of the dusky tribe.

It was not without a leaping of the heart that

161

she caught sight of a small pair of bare legs sticking
up, feet uppermost, by the side of a hillock ; and
she was too much agitated at the first glance to
see the ragged clothes and the dark, shaggy head

5 attached to them. It was a boy asleep ; and Maggie
trotted along faster and more lightly lest she should
wake him ; she did not once think that he was one
of her friends, the gypsies, and that he might have
the kindliest of manners. But the fact was so ; for

10 at the next bend of the lane, Maggie actually saw

the little haK-round, black tent, with the blue smoke

rising before it, which was to be her refuge from all

the trials that had pursued her in civilized life.

She even saw a female figure by the column of

15 smoke — doubtless the gypsy mother who provided
the tea and other groceries ; and it was astonishing
to herself that she did not feel more delighted. But
it was startling to find the gypsies in a lane, after
all, and not on a common; indeed, it was rather

20 disappointing ; for a mysterious common, where
there were sand pits to hide in, and one was out
of everybody's reach, had always made part of
Maggie's picture of gypsy life. She went on, how-
ever, and thought with some comfort that gypsies

25 most likely knew nothing about idiots, so there was
no danger of their falling into the mistake of setting
her down at the first glance as an idiot.

It was plain she had attracted attention ; for the
female figure, who proved to be a young woman with
a baby on her arm, walked slowly to meet her. Mag-
gie looked up into the new face as it approached.

Ky little lajy, whsn are jtm golngT"

and was reassured by the thought tbat her Aunt s
Pullet and tlie rest were right when they called her
^ gypsy ; for this face, with the bright, dark eyes
and long hair, was really something like what she
used to see in the glass before she cut her hair off.

"My little lady, wliere are you going?" the lo
gypsy asked.

It was delightful, and just what Maggie expected ;

163

the gypsies saw at once that she was a little lady,
and were prepared to treat her accordingly.

^' Not any farther/' said Maggie, feeling as if she
were saying what she had rehearsed in a dream.

6 " I'm come to stay with you^ please."

" That's pretty ; come, then. Why, what a nice
little lady you are, to be sure," said the gypsy, tak-
ing her by the hand. Maggie thought her very
agreeable, and wished she had not been so dirty.

10 There was quite a group round the fire when they
reached it. An old gypsy woman was seated on the
ground nursing her knees, and now and then poking
a skewer into the round kettle that sent forth an
odorous steam; two small, shock-headed children

16 were lying prone and resting on their elbows, some-
thing like small sphinxes ; and a placid donkey was
bending his head over a tall girl, who, lying on her
back, was scratching his nose and indulging him
with a bite of sweet, stolen hay. The slanting sun-

20 light fell kindly upon them, and the scene was very
pretty and comfortable, Maggie thought, only she
hoped they would soon set out the teacups. Every-
thing would be quite charming when she had taught
the gypsies to use a washing basin, and to feel an

26 interest in books. It was a little confusing, though,
when the young woman began to speak to the old
one in a language which Maggie did not understand.

154

while the tall girl, who was feeding the donkey, sat
up and stared at her without offering any salutation.

At last the old woman said : " What, my pretty
lady, are you come to stay with us ? Sit ye down,
and tell us where you come from." 5

It was just like a story ; Maggie liked to be called
pretty lady and treated in this way. She sat down
and said : " I'm come from home because I'm un-
happy, and I mean to be a gypsy. I'll live with you,
if you like, and I can teach you a great many things." 10

" Such a clever little lady," said the woman with
the baby, sitting down by Maggie, and allowing the
baby to crawl ; " and such a pretty bonnet and
frock," taking off Maggie's bonnet and looking at
it, while she said something to the old woman in 15
the unknown language. The tall girl snatched the
bonnet and put it on her own head, hind-foremost,
with a grin. But Maggie was determined not to
show any weakness on this point, as if she cared
for the bonnet. 20

" I don't want to wear a bonnet," she said ; " I'd
rather wear a red handkerchief like yours " (looking
at her friend by her side). " My hair was quite long
till yesterday, when I cut it off ; but I dare say it
will grow again very soon," she added. She had 25
forgotten even her hunger at the moment in the
desire to make herself stand well in gypsy opinion.

155

"Oh, what a nice little lady! — and rich, Tm
sure,'' said the old woman. " Didn't you live in a
beautiful house at home?"

" Yes, my home is pretty, and I'm very fond of

5 the river, where we go fishing ; but I'm often very
unhappy. I should have liked to bring my books
with me, but I came away in a hurry, you know.
But I can tell you almost everything there is in my
books — I've read them so many times; and that

10 will amuse you. And I can tell you something
about geography, too — that's about the world we
live in — very useful and interesting. Did you ever
hear about Columbus ? "

Maggie's eyes had begun to sparkle and her cheeks

16 to flush — she was really beginning to instruct the
gypsies and gaining great influence over them.

II.

The gypsies themselves were not without amaze-
ment at this talk, though their attention was divided
by the contents of Maggie's pocket, which the friend
20 at her right hand had by this time emptied without
attracting her notice.

" Is that where you live ? " said the old woman, at
the mention of Columbus.

" Oh, no ! " said Maggie, with some pity ; " Colum-
26 bus was a very wonderful man, who found out half

156

the world, and they put chains on him, and treated
him very badly, you know ; it's in my Catechism of
Geography ; but perhaps it's rather too long for me
to tell before tea — I want my tea so''

The last words burst from Maggie, in spite of 5
herself, with a sudden drop from patronizing instruc-
tion to simple peevishness.

"Why, she's hungry, poor little lady," said the
younger woman. " Give her soriie of the cold victual.
You've been walking a good way, I'll be bound, my lo
dear. Where's your home ? "

" It's Dorlcote Mill — a good way off," said Maggie.
" My father is Mr. Tulliver ; but we mustn't let him
know where I am, else he'll fetch me home again.
Where does the queen of the gypsies live ? " 15

" What ! Do you want to go to her, my little
lady?" said the younger woman. The tall girl
meanwhile was constantly staring at Maggie and
grinning. Her manners were certainly not agreeable.

" No," said Maggie ; " I'm only thinking that if 20
she isn't a very good queen, you might be glad when
she died, and you would choose another. If I was a
queen, I'd be kind to everybody/'

" Here's a bit of nice victual, then," said the old
woman, handing to Maggie a lump of dry bread 25
which she had taken from a bag of scraps, and a
piece of cold bacon.

167

"Thank you/' said Maggie, looking at the food
without taking it; "but will you give me some
bread and butter and tea instead? I don't like
bacon."

5 " We've got no tea nor butter," said the old woman
with something like a scowl, as if she were getting
tired of coaxing.

" Oh, a little bread and treacle would do," said
Maggie.

10 "We ha'n't got no treacle," said the old woman
crossly, whereupon there followed a sharp dialogue
between the two women in their unknown tongue,
and one of the small sphinxes snatched at the bread
and bacon and began to eat it.

15 A little while afterwards two men came up, fierce-
looking fellows, who began chattering with the
women in the strange language which Maggie did
not understand. From the tones of their voices it
seemed that they were quarreling, and Maggie,

20 frightened at their rough manners, could scarcely
keep from bursting into tears.

She felt that it was impossible she should ever be
queen of these people, or ever give them amusing
and useful knowledge. At last the younger woman,

26 in her previous coaxing tone, said :

"This nice little lady's come to live with us;
aren't you glad?"

158

" Ay, very glad/' said the younger, who was look-
ing at Maggie's silver thimble and other small mat-
ters that had been taken from her pocket. The
woman saw she was frightened.

" We've got nothing nice for a lady to eat," said 5
the old woman in her coaxing tone, '' and she's so
hungry, sweet little lady ! "

" Here, my dear, try if you can eat a bit o' this,"
said the younger woman, handing some of the stew
on a brown dish with an iron spoon to Maggie. lo

If her father would but come by in the gig and
take her up ! Or even if Jack the Giant Killer, or
Mr. Greatheart, or St. George who slew the dragon
on the half-pennies, would happen to pass that way !
But Maggie thought with a sinking heart that these 15
heroes were never seen in this neighborhood. . . .

^'What! you don't like it, my dear!" said the
young woman, observing that Maggie did not take
even a spoonful of the stew. " Try a bit — come."

" No, thank you," said Maggie, summoning all 20
force for a desperate effort, and trying to smile in a
friendly way. " I haven't time, I think, it seems
getting darker. I think I must go home now, and
come again another day, and then I can bring you a
basket with some jam tarts and nice things." 26

Maggie rose from her seat; but her hope sank
when the old gypsy woman said, " Stop a bit, stop a

bit, little lady; we'll take you home all safe, when
we've done supper."

Maggie sat down again, with small faith in this
promise, though she presently saw the tall girl put-
5 ting a bridle on the donkey, and throwing a couple
of bags on his back.

III.

" Now, then, little Missis," said the younger man,
rising, and leading the donkey forward, " tell us
10 where you live — what's the name o' the place?"

" Dorlcote Mill is my home," said Maggie eagerly.

" What ! a big mill a little way this side o' St.
Ogg's ? "

^^Yes," said Maggie. "Is it far off? I think I
15 should like to walk there, if you please."

" No, no, it'll be getting dark ; we must make
haste. And the donkey'U carry you as nice as can
be — you'll see."

He lifted Maggie as he spoke, and set her on the
20 donkey. She felt relieved that it was not the old
man who seemed to be going with her, but she had
only a trembling hope that she was going home.

"Here's your pretty bonnet," said the young

woman, putting that recently despised but now wel-

25 come article of costume on Maggie's head ; " and

you'll say we've been very good to you, won't you ?

and what a nice little lady we said you was ? "

160

"Oh, yes, thank you," said Maggie; "Tin very
much obliged to you. But I wish you'd go with
me, too."

She thought anything was better than going with
one of the dreadful men alone; it would be more 5
cheerful to be murdered by a larger party.

It now appeared that the man also was to be
seated on the donkey, holding Maggie before him,
and she was as incapable of remonstrating against
this arrangement as the donkey himself, though no lo
nightmare had ever seemed to her more horrible.
When the woman had patted her on the back and
said " Good-bye," the donkey, at a strong hint from
the man's stick, set off at a rapid walk along the
lane toward the point Maggie had come from an 15
hour ago, while the tall girl and the rough urchin,
also furnished with sticks, escorted them for the first
hundred yards, with much screaming and thwacking.

The ride was, to Maggie, a most dreadful expe-
rience. ... At last — oh, sight of joy! — the lane, 20
the longest in the world, was coming to an end, was
opening on a broad highroad, where there was
actually a coach passing! And there was a finger
post at the corner ; she had surely seen that finger
post before — " To St. Ogg s, 2 miles." 25

The gypsy really meant to take her home, then ;
he was probably a good man, after all, and might

have been rather hurt at the thought that she didn't
like coming with him alone.

As they passed the crossroad, Maggie caiight sight
of some one coming on a white-faced horse.

Ih^s (Muight ligi

6 "Oh, stop, stop!" she cried out. "There's my
father! Oh, father, father!"

The sudden joy was almost painful, and before lier
father reached her she was sobbing. Great was Mr.
TuUiver's wonder, for he had made a round from
10 Basset, and had not yet been home.

"Why, what's the meaning o' this?" he said,

KB. BBAD. IT. — 11

162

checking his horse, while Maggie slipped from th^
donkey and ran to her father's stirrup.

" The little miss lost herself, I reckon," said t]
gypsy. " She'd come to our tent at the far end
Dunlow lane, and I was bringing her where she si
her home was. It's a good way to come.'*

" Oh, yes, father, he's been very good to bring
home," said Maggie. " A very kind, good man."

"Here then, my man," said Mr. Tulliver, taki
out five shillings. " It's the best day's work y<
ever did. I couldn't afford to lose the little mail
here, lift her up before me." . . .

"Why, Maggie, how's this — how's this?" he sai<
as they rode along, while she laid her head agai
her father and sobbed.

" Oh, father," sobbed Maggie, " I ran away becausj
Tom was so angry with me. I couldn't bear it."

"Pooh! pooh!" said Mr. Tulliver, soothingly, "yot
mustn't think o' running away from father. Whaj
would father do without his little girl?"

" Oh, no, I never will again, father — never."

Mr. Tulliver spoke his mind very strongly whei
he reached home that evening, and the effect wj
seen in the remarkable fact that Maggie never hej
one reproach from her mother, or one taunt froi
Tom about this foolish business of her running awa^
to the gypsies.

THE FAIRIES OF THE CALDON LOW.

' Oh, where have you
been, iny Mary.
(Jh, where liave yon been from

* I have been to the top of the Caldon Low,

The midsummer night to see ! "

' And what did you see, my Mary,

All up on the Caldon Low ? "
" I saw the glad sunshine come down,

And I saw the merry winds blow."

" And what did you hear, my Mary,

All up on the Caldon Low ?"
"I heard the drops of the water made,

And the ears of green com grow."

164

" Oh, tell me all, my Mary —

All, all that ever you know ;
For you must have seen the fairies

Last night on the Caldon Low."

" Then take me on your knee, mother,

And listen, mother of mine :
A hundred fairies danced last night.

And the harpers they were nine ;

" And their harp strings rang so merrily
To their dancing feet so small ;

But, oh ! the words of their talking
Were merrier far than all."

" And what were the words, my Mary,
That then you heard them say ? "

'^ I'll tell you all, my mother ;
But let me have my way.

" Some of them played with the water.

And rolled it down the hill ;
' And this,' they said, ^ shall speedily turn

The poor old miller's mill ;

'^ ^ For there has been no water

Ever since the first of May;
And a busy man will the miller be

At dawning of the day.

165

" ^ Oh, the miller, how he will laugh

When he sees the water rise !
The jolly old miller, how he will laugh

Till the tears fill both his eyes ! *

^' And some they seized the little winds

That sounded over the hill ;
And each put a horn into his mouth.

And blew both loud and shrill ;

" ' And there,' they said, ' the merry winds go

Away from every horn ;
And they shall clear the mildew dank

From the blind old widow's com.

" ' Oh, the poor blind widow.

Though she has been blind so long.

She'll be blithe enough when the mildew's gone
And the corn stands tall and strong.'

" And then some brought the brown lint seed
And flung it down from the Low;

' And this,' they said, ' by the sunrise,
In the weaver's croft shall grow.

'^ ' Oh, the poor lame weaver.

How he will laugh outright
When he sees his dwindling flax field

All full of flowers by night ! '

166

" And then outspoke a brownie,
With a long beard on his chin,

^ I have spun up all the tow,' said he,
' And I want some more to spin.

" ' I've spun a piece of hempen cloth.

And I want to spin another ;
A little sheet for Mary's bed.

And an apron for her mother.'

" With that I could not help but laugh,
And I laughed out loud and free;

And then on the top of the Caldon Low
There was no one left but me.

" But coming down from the hilltop

I heard afar, below,
How busy the jolly miller was.

And how the wheels did go.

" And I peeped into the widow's field.

And, sure enough, were seen
The yellow ears of the mildewed corn

All standing stout and green.

" And down by the weaver's croft I stole,
To see if the flax were sprung ;

And I met the weaver at his gate
With the good news on his tongue.

167

*^ Now this is all I heard, mother,
And all that I did see ;

So prithee make my bed, mother.
For I'm tired as I can be."

Jj^ioo.

THE GOOD SAMARITAN.

A certain man went down from Jerusalem to
Jericho, and fell among thieves, which stripped him
of his raiment, and wounded him, and departed,
leaving him half dead. And by chance there came

5 down a certain priest that way, and when he saw
him he passed by on the other side. And likewise
a Levite, when he was at the place, came and looked
on him, and passed by on the other side.

But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came

10 where he was ; and when he saw him, he had
compassion on him, and went to him, and bound
up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine, and set
him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn,
and took care of him. And on the morrow when

15 he departed, he took out two pence, and gave them
to the host, and said unto him, " Take care of him ;
and whatsoever thou spendest more, when I come
again I will repay thee."

Which now of these three, thinkest thou, was

20 neighbor unto him that fell among the thieves?

ODBiWTd HdiiiiiiiiiiJ.

THE CONCORD HYMN.

The "battle of Lexington and Concord was
fougLton the 19th of April, 1775. Sixty-
years later, a monument, erected near
Coucoid, was dedicated to the memory of
iatriots who fell in that struck.
Tlie following song waa written for the
occasion by Ralph Waldo Emerson.

By the rude bridge that
arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze un-
furled,

Here once the embattled farmers stood
And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept ;

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,

We set to-day a votive stone,
That memory may their deed redeem,

When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit that made those heroes dare

To die, or leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare

The shaft we raise to them and thee.

169

THE TWO OFF AS.

A very long time ago there lived a king of the

Angles whose name was Waermund. He had but

one son, whose name was Ofifa ; he was a tall youth

and fair, but he was dumb. Moreover, the lad had

5 been born blind, and he saw nothing till he was of

the age of seven years. Now when King Waermund

grew old and Offa, his son, was about thirty years

old, men began to say : " Lo, Waermund has not

much longer to live, and Offa, his son, is dumb.

10 How can a dumb man reign over the Angles?"

Now there was one of the nobles of the Angles

whose name was Rigan. And Rigan went to King

Waermund and said: "0 King, thou art old, and

^hou hast no son save this Offa, who is dumb, and a

^durnb man can not reign over the English people.

-iVow behold me here, and choose me, that I may be

^^"to thee as another son while thou livest, and that

^ti^n thou diest I may be thine heir and reign in

*^5^ stead."

^ut King Waermund said to Rigan : " Thou shalt
^^t be my son, neither will I give my kingdom for
^t^^e to reign over."

So Rigan gathered himself together an host to
^^lit against King Waermund. Then King Waer-

170

mund gathered together his aldermen and his thanes
and all his wise men, and said unto them, " What
shall we do, seeing Rigan cometh with an host to
fight against us ? "

And they made a truce with Rigan, so that he 5
and certain of his captains came and spake with the
king and his wise men. And they sat for many
days doubting what they should do, and one spake
on this manner and another spake on that manner.
For they would not that a dumb man should reignio
over them, and yet it pleased them not to cast aside
the royal house which had so long reigned over the
people of the Angles.

Now on the last day Offa, the king's son, came
and sat among the wise men. For though he was i5
dumb, yet could he hear and understand the words
that men spake. So when he heard men say that
he was not fit to reign over the people of the Angles,
it grieved him to the heart, and he wept.

And when he was greatly moved, lo, the string 20
of his tongue was loosed, and he spake among the
wise men and said : " This now is wickedness, that
any man should seek to drive me out of the seat of
my father's, so that a stranger should reign instead
of me over my people. Who is this Rigan that he 25
should rise up against his king, and come to fio-ht
against him ? Now, if he will stand up against me

171

to battle, I will smite him and all that abide with
him ; but all that abide with me and fight against
him, them I will greatly honor."

Lo, th« itilng of hii toD^iia wu loowd.

So all men greatly wondered when they heard the
s dumb speak, and saw that he whom they despised
had a strong heart within him. And the most of
those who had followed Rigan were afraid and left
Mm. But Rigan still stood up and defied the king
and his son, and then went forth. Then the wise
winen said to the king:

"0 King, thy son is of age and hath a stout
heart ; let him be girded with the belt of a fighting

172

man, and let him lead us forth to battle against
Rigan and those that are with him."

So Ofifa was girded with the belt of a man of war,
and he went forth to fight against Rigan and his
followers. Now Rigan had two sons : the name of 5
the elder was Hildebrand, and the name of the
younger was Swegen. And Hildebrand came forth
to fight against Offa, but Offa smote him that he
died. And when Swegen came to help his brother,
Offa smote him, too. lo

So when Rigan saw that both his sons were dead,
he fled, and was drowned in crossing a certain river.
And Offa returned to Wsermund, his father, with
great joy. And Waermund gave up his kingdom to
his son, and Offa reigned over the Angles, and all is
the kings that were round about honored him.

II.

Now after many years there was a man of the
Angles who dwelt in Mercia, whose name was Thing-
ferth, and he was an alderman and a kinsman of the
king. Now Thingferth had but one son, whose 20
name was Winfrith. And the child was lame, blind,
and deaf from his birth; so that his parents had
great sorrow. And they made a vow to God that,
if He would of His mercy make the child whole,
they would build a goodly monastery to His honor. 26

178

Now after a while there arose in Mercia a king
named Beomred, who was not of the royal line.
Wherefore he sought to slay all that were kinsfolk
of the kings that had reigned before him. And
> when Thingferth heard this, he fled, and his wife
with him. But the lad Winfrith was left behind,
for Beornred sought not to slay him ; for he counted
that one who was deaf and blind and lame should
never trouble his kingdom. And when Winfrith

10 was left alone, God had pity on him, and He opened

his eyes and he saw. Then he stretched forth his

limbs and he walked. Lastly his ears were opened,

and he tried to speak, and he spake plain.

And he grew and waxed strong and became a

15 mighty man of valor. Then men said, " Lo, this
youth is like Offa in the old time, who spake not till
Rigan came to fight against Waermund, his father."
So his name was no longer called Winfrith, but Offa.
And all men that hated Beornred and loved the

20 house of the old kings gathered themselves unto
Offa, and he became their captain.

Now Beornred heard that Winfrith lived and had
waxed mighty, and that men no longer called him
Winfrith but Offa, and it grieved him sore, and he

25 repented that he had spared Winfrith and had not
slain him when he sought to slay the house of his
father. So Beornred gathered him an host to fight

174

against Off a and the men that were with him. And
when Offa heard of it, he gathered together all his
friends and all the men that followed him, even a
great host, and went forth to battle against Beornred.

And the battle waxed very sore, but towards even- 6
tide Beornred was smitten that he died, and they
that were with him fled and were scattered. Then
all men came to Offa and said : " Lo, thovi hast van-
quished Beornred the tyrant, and thou art of the
house of our old kings. Reign thou therefore overio
us, and we will serve thee and follow thee whither-
soever thou leadest us." So they set the crown royal
upon his head, and he reigned over all the people
of the Angles that dwelt in Mercia. He sent for
his parents back into the land, and when they died i6
he buried them with great honor.

So Offa was king, and he waxed mighty, and he
smote the Welsh ofttunes, and he warred mightily
with the other kings of the Angles and Saxons that
were in Britahi. Moreover, he made a league with 20
Charles, the king of the Franks, for that they two
were the mightiest of all the kings that dwelt in the
western lands. Moreover, he forgot not his father's
vow, but he built a goodly minster and called it by
the name of Alban, who was the first martyr of 25
Christ in the isle of Britain in the old time when the
Romans dwelt therein. And he built the minster

176

hard by the town of Verulam, where Albaii had died.
And men came to dwell round about the minster,
so that there was a new town, and men called that
town no longer Verulam but St. Albans.
5 And OfEa reigned thirty-nine winters, and he died,
and they buried him in a chapel by the river of
Ouse, hard by the town of Bedford. But there was
a great flood in the river, which swept
away the tomb, and the bofl_> of
loKing OfEa, so that no man know-
eth where he lieth to this day

This legend of the two
Otfas, with many others of
a similar kind, is related

IS in Professor Freeman's
"Old English History."
"This story," he says, " is
told both by English and Edw«a a. r»«M..

V Danish writers, and no doubt it is one of many

*oid stories which. are common to all the Teutonic
nations. Or, perhaps, I should say that it is common
to all the world, for you will easily see how like this
story is to the tale of Croesus and his son in Herodo-
tus. No doubt the story is one of those which the

^ English brought with them, and for which they
soOH^imes found a place in their new land."

176

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER.

This song, familiar to every American, was written by
Francis Scott Key, while on board the British frigate " Sur-
prise " in the harbor of Baltimore, in 1814. The War of 1812
was still in progress. The British had laid siege to Baltimore
and were directing their guns upon Fort McHenry. The flag
on the fort could be distinctly seen through the earlier hours
of the night by the glare of the battle ; but the firing finally
ceased, and the prisoners anxiously waited for the morning
to see whether the colors still floated from the ramparts.
Key's feelings found expression in " The Star-Spangled Ban-
ner," which he wrote hastily on the back of an old letter.

Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last

gleaming,
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the

perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly

streaming ?
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still

there :
Oh, say, does that Star-Spangled Banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ?

On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the
deep.
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence
reposes,

177

What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,

As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses ?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream :
'Tis the Star-Spangled Banner ! Oh, long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore

That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion
A home and a country should leave us no more ?
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps'
pollution ;
No refuge should save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave :
And the Star-Spangled Banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Oh, thus be it ever when freemen shall stand

Between their loved homes and war's desolation.
Blest with victory and peace, may the Heaven-rescued
land
Praise the power that hath made and preserved us
a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto, " In God is our trust " :
And the Star-Spangied Banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

BOH. BEAD. lY. — 12

178

AMERICA.

This song was written by Samuel F. Smith in 1832, for
a children's Fourth of July celebration in the Park Street
Church, Boston. It is more generally known, and has per-
haps been oftener sung, than any other of our national

melodies.

My country, 'tis of thee,

Sweet land of liberty,

Of thee I sing ;
Land where my fathers died.
Land of the pilgrims' pride,
From every mountain side

Let freedom ring.

My native country, thee —
Land of the noble, free —

Thy name I love ;
I love thy rocks and rills.
Thy woods and templed hills ;
My heart with rapture thrills.

Like that above.

Let music swell the breeze.
And ring from all the trees

Sweet freedom's song ;
Let mortal tongues awake ;
Let all that breathe partake ;
Let rocks their silence break, —

The sound prolong.

179

Our fathers' God, to Thee,
Author of liberty,

To Thee we sing ;
Long may our land be bright
With freedom's holy light ;
Protect us by thy might,

Great God, our King.

-ooj^ioo-

THE PRODIGAL SON.

And he said, A certain man had two sons : and
the younger of them said to his father, " Father, give
me the portion of goods that falleth to me." And
he divided unto them his living.

J And not many days after, the younger son gath-
ered all together, and took his journey into a far
country, and there wasted his substance with riotous
living. And when he had spent all, there arose a
mighty famine in that land ; and he began to be in

10 want. And he went and joined himself to a citizen
of that country ; and he sent him into his fields to
feed swine.

And he would fain have filled his belly with the
husks that the swine did eat ; and no man gave unto

15 him. And when he came to himself, he said, " How
many hired servants of my father's have bread

180

enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger ! I
will arise and go to my father, and will say unto
him, Father, I have sinned against heaven and be-
fore thee, and am no more worthy to be called
thy son: make me as one of thy hired servants/' s

And he arose, and came to his father. But when
he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and
had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and
kissed him.

And the son said unto him, "Father, I haveio
sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no
more worthy to be called thy son."

But the father said to his servants, " Bring forth
the best robe, and put it on him ; and put a ring on
his hand, and shoes on his feet: and bring hither is
the fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat and be
merry: for this my son was dead, and is alive again';
he was lost, and is found.'' And they began to be
merry.

Now his elder son was in the field; and as he 20
came and drew nigh to the house, he heard music
and dancing.

And he called one of the servants, and asked what
these things meant.

And he said unto him, " Thy brother is come ; 25
and thy father hath killed the fatted calf, because
he hath received him safe and sound."

181

And he was angry and would not go in ; therefore
came his father out and entreated him.

And he answering, said to his father, " Lo, these
many years do I serve thee, neither transgressed I

5 at any time thy commandment ; and yet thou never
gavest me a kid, that I might make merry with my
friends. But as soon as this thy son was come,
which hath devoured thy living, thou hast killed for
him the fatted calf."

10 And he said unto him, " Son, thou art ever with
me, and all that I have is thine. It was meet that
we should make merry, and be glad : for this thy
brother was dead, and is alive again ; and was lost,
and is found."

— From the Gospel according to St. Luke,

•0<3>0<00-

HOW DUKE WILLIAM MADE HIMSELF KING.

15 The conquest of England by the Normans under
Duke William was one of the most remarkable
events in history. The story of the manner in
which it was accomplished has been told by
Charles Dickens, in ^' A Child's History of Eng-

20 land," very nearly as I will repeat here: —

Oharles Diokei

About eight hundred and fifty years ago
there lived a king of England whose name was

174

against Offa and the men that were with him. And
when Offa heard of it, he gathered together all his
friends and all the men that followed him, even a
great host, and went forth to battle against Beornred.

And the battle waxed very sore, but towards even- s
tide Beornred was smitten that he died, and they
that were with him fled and were scattered. Then
all men came to Offa and said : " Lo, thou hast van-
quished Beornred the tyrant, and thou art of the
house of our old kings. Reign thou therefore overio
us, and we will serve thee and follow thee whither-
soever thou leadest us." So they set the crown royal
upon his head, and he reigned over all the people
of the Angles that dwelt in Mercia. He sent for
his parents back into the land, and when they died i6
he buried them with great honor.

So Offa was king, and he waxed mighty, and he
smote the Welsh ofttimes, and he warred mightily
with the other kings of the Angles and Saxons that
were in Britain. Moreover, he made a league with 20
Charles, the king of the Franks, for that they two
were the mightiest of all the kings that dwelt in the
western lands. Moreover, he forgot not his father's
vow, but he built a goodly minster and called it by
the name of Alban, who was the first martyr of 26
Christ in the isle of Britain in the old time when the
Romans dwelt therein. And he built the minster

175

hard by the town of Verulam, where Alban had died.
And men came to dwell round about the mmster,
so that there was a new town, and men called that
town no longer Verulam but St. Albans.

And Offa reigned thirty-nine winters, and he died,
and they buried him in a chapel by the river of
Ouse, hard by the town of Bedford. But there was
a great flood in the river, which swept
away the tomb, and the body of
10 King Offa, so that no man know-
eth where he lieth to this day.

This legend of the two
Offas, with many others of
a. similar kind, is related

15 in Professor Freeman's
"Old English History."
"This story," he says, "is
told both by English and ^""'"^ *' ^"'"'•

by Danish writers, and no doubt it is one of many

so old stories which are common to all the Teutonic
nations. Or, perhaps, I should say that it is common
to all the world, for you will easily see how like this
story is to the tale of Croesus and his son in Herodo-
tus. No doubt the story is one of those which the

» English brought with them, and for which they
somi^times found a place in their new land."

176

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER.

Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last

gleaming.
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the

perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly

streaming ?
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still

there :
Oh, say, does that Star-Spangled Banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ?

On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the
deep.
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence
reposes,

177

What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore

Oh, thus be it ever when freemen shall stand

Between their loved homes and war's desolation.
Blest with victory and peace, may the Heaven-rescued
land
Praise the power that hath made and preserved us
a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto, " In God is our trust " :
And the Star-Spangled Banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

8CH. BEAD. IV. — 12

186

were drawn up in a hollow circle, marked out by
their shining spears. Riding round this circle at a
distance to survey it, Harold saw a brave figure on
horseback in a blue mantle and a bright helmet,
whose horse suddenly stumbled and threw him. s

" Who is that man who has fallen?" Harold asked
of one of his captains.

" The king of Norway,'' he replied.

" He is a tall and stately kmg," said Harold; "but
his end is near." lo

He added in a little while, '' Go yonder to my
brother and tell him, if he will withdraw his soldiers
he shall be Earl of Northumberland and rich and
powerful in England.''

The captain rode away and gave the message. 15

"What will he give to my friend, the king of
Norway?" asked his brother.

" Seven feet of earth for a grave," was the
answer.

" No more ? " returned the brother with a smile. 20

" The king of Norway being a tall man, perhaps a
little more," replied the captain.

"Ride back," said the brother, "and tell King
Harold to make ready for the fight."

He did so very soon. And such a fight King 26
Harold led that day, that his brother and the Nor-
wegian king and every chief of note in all their host,

188

except the Norwegian king's son, were left dead
upon the field.

The victorious army inarched to York. As King
Harold sat there at feast, in the midst of all his com-
pany, a stir was heard at the doors, and messengers i
all covered with mire from riding far and fast came
hurrying in, to report that the Normans had landed
in England.

It was true. Duke William's ships had been tossed
about by contrary winds, and some of them had beenio
wrecked. But now, encamped near Hastings, was
the whole Norman power, hopeful and strong on
English ground.

Harold broke up the feast and hurried to London.
Within a week his army was ready. He sent cutis
spies to learn what was the strength of the Normans.
William took them, caused them to be led through
his whole camp, and then dismissed.

"The Normans," said these spies to Harold, "are
not bearded on the upper lip as we are, but are 20
shorn. They are priests."

"My men will find those priests good soldiers,"
answered Harold, with a laugh.

In the middle of the month of October, in the year
one thousand and sixty-six, the Normans and the 25
English came front to front. All night the armies
lay encamped before each other in a part of the

189

country then called Senlac, now called Battle. With
the first dawn of day they arose. There, in the faint
light, were the English on a hill. A wood lay
behind them, and in their midst was the royal ban-

5 ner, representing a fightirig warrior, woven in gold
thread, adorned with precious stones.

Beneath the banner, as it rustled in the wind, stood
King Harold on foot, with two of his remaining
brothers by his side; around them, still and silent

10 as the dead, clustered the whole English army —
every soldier covered by his shield, and bearing in
his hand the dreaded English battle-ax.

On an opposite hill, in three lines, — archers, foot
soldiers, and horsemen, — was the Norman force. Of

16 a sudden, a great battle cry, " God help us ! " burst
from the Norman lines. The English answered with
their own battle cry, " God's Rood ! Holy Rood ! "
The Normans then came sweeping down the hill to
attack the English.

20 There was one tall Norman knight who rode before
the Norman army on a prancing horse, throwing up
his heavy sword and catching it, and singing of the
bravery of his countrymen. An English knight, who
rode. out from the English force to meet him, fell by

^this knight's hand. Another English knight rode
out, and he also fell ; but then a third rode out and
killed the Norman.

190

The English, keeping side by side in a great mass,
cared no more for the showers of Norman arrows
than if they had been showers of Norman rain.
When the Norman horsemen rode against them,
with their battle-axes they cut men and horses 5
down. The Normans gave way. The English
pressed forward. A cry went forth among the
Norman troops that Duke William w^as killed.
Duke William took off his helmet, in order that
his face might be distinctly seen, and rode along the 10
line before his men. This gave them courage.

As they turned again to face the English, some of
their Norman horse divided the pursuing body of the
English from the rest, and thus all that foremost
portion of the English army fell, fighting bravely. 15

The main body still remaining firm, heedless of
the Norman arrows, and with their battle-axes cut-
ting down the crowds of horsemen when they rode
up, like forests of young trees, Duke William pre-
tended to retreat. The eager English followed. The 20
Norman army closed again and fell upon them with
great slaughter.

" Still," said Duke William, " there are thousands
of the English firm as rocks around their king.
Shoot upward, Norman archers, that your arrows 26
may fall down upon their faces."

The sun rose high, and sank, and the battle still

191

raged. Through all the wild October day, the clash
and din resounded in the air. In the red sunset, and
in the white moonlight, heaps upon heaps of dead
men lay strewn, a dreadful spectacle, all over the

5 ground.

King Harold, wounded with an arrow in the eye,
was nearly blind. His brothers were already killed.
Twenty Norman knights now dashed forward to seize
the royal banner from the English knights and sol-

lodiers, still faithfully collected round their blinded
king. The king received a mortal wound, and
dropped. The English broke and fled. The Nor-
mans rallied, and the day was lost.

Oh, what a sight beneath the moon and stars, when

15 lights were shining in the tent of the victorious Duke
William, which was pitched near the spot where
Harold fell — and he and his knights were carous-
ing within — and soldiers with torches, going slowly
to and fro without, sought for the corpse of Harold

20 among piles of dead — and Harold's banner, worked
in golden thread and precious stones, lay low, all
torn and soiled with blood — and the duke's flag,
with the three Norman Lions upon it, kept watch
over the field.

26 Upon the ground where the brave Harold fell,
William the Norman afterward founded an abbey,
called Battle Abbey, which was a rich and splendid

192

place through many a troubled year. But the first
work that he had to do was to conquer the English
thoroughly; and you must know that this was a
thing not easy for any man to do. He overran
several counties ; he burned many towns ; he laid i
waste scores upon scores of miles of pleasant coun-
try ; he destroyed a great number of lives. At
length, on Christmas day, he was crowned in West-
minster Abbey, under the title of William the First ;
but he is best known as William the Conqueror. lo

It was a strange coronation. One of the bishops
who performed the ceremony asked the Normans, in
French, if they would have Duke William for their
king. They answered yes. Another of the bishops
put the same question to the Saxons, in English. 15
They, too, answered yes, with a loud shout.

The noise, being heard by a guard of Norman
horse soldiers outside, was mistaken for resistance
on the part of the English. The guard set fire to
the houses near by, and a great tumult followed. 2(
Everybody was frightened, and all who could do so
rushed out of the abbey. The king, being left alone
with a few priests, was hurriedly crowned. When
the crown was placed on his head, he swore to govern
the English as well as the best of then- own mon- 2
archs. And, if we except Alfred the Great, this he
might very easily have done.

198

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

SOME OF THE AUTHORS AND ARTISTS WHOSE WORK
IS REPRESENTED IN THIS VOLUME.

William Bingley : English writer on natural history. Died
in 1832. Wrote "Animal Biography," "Memoirs of British
Quadrupeds," " Useful Knowledge."

William Blake : English artist and poet. Born in London,
1757; died, 1828. Wrote "Songs of Innocence and Experi-

ence."

Frangois Edouard Joachim Copp^e : French poet. Born, 1842.
Has written several volumes of short stories (Conies en Prose)
and tales in verse, besides a few successful dramas.

Charles Dickens: The most popular of English novelists.
Born at Landport, Portsmouth, 1812; died, 1870. Wrpte
"Oliver Twist," "Nicholas Nickleby," "Barnaby Rudge,"
" Dombey and Son," " The Personal History of David Copper-
field," " Bleak House," " Hard Times," " A Tale of Two Cities,"
" A Child's History of England," etc.

George Eliot, the assumed name of Mary Ann Evans (Cross) :
An English writer of remarkable power, best known by her
novels. Born, 1819 ; died, 1880. Wrote " Adam Bede," " The
Mill on the Floss," "Silas Marner," "Romola," "Middle-
march," " Daniel Deronda," etc.

Ralph. Waldo Emerson : American essayist and poet. Born
in Boston, 1803 ; died, 1882. Wrote " English Traits," " Society
and Solitude," "The Conduct of Life," "Letters and Social
Aims," "Essays" (two volumes), "Poems," etc.

SCH. READ. IV. — 13

194

Edward A. Freeman : English historian. Born, 1823 ; died,
1892. Professor of history in the University of Oxford.
Wrote " History of the Norman Conquest of England," ** Old
English History," " The Ottoman Power in Europe," etc.

Hannah F. Gould : American poet. Born in Massachusetts ;
died, 1865. Wrote '* Hymns and Poems for Children," and
other volumes of poetry.

Mary Howitt : English poet. Born about 1804 ; died, 1888.
Wrote a great number of volumes, in prose and verse, for chil-
dren, also numerous works for older readers, most of which
are now out of print and forgotten.

Thomas Hughes : English author and lawyer. Born, 1823 ;
died, 1896. Wrote "Tom Brown's School Days at Rugby,"
" Tom Brown at Oxford," " Alfred the Great," etc.

Francis Scott Key: American lawyer and poet. Born in
Maryland, 1779 ; died, 1843. Wrote " The Star-Spangled Ban-
ner," and other poems.

Ivan Kriloff (Kre-l6ff ') : A celebrated Russian fabulist. Born
in Moscow, 1768 ; died, 1844. His " Fables " are the delight
of all ages and classes in Russia, and they have been trans-
lated into many languages.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow : The most popular of Ameri-
can poets. Born at Portland, Maine, 1807 ; died at Cambridge,
Massachusetts, 1882. Wrote " Evangeline," " The Song of
Hiawatha," "Tales of a Wayside Inn," "The Courtship of
Miles Standish," and many shorter poems.

Henry C. McCook : An American naturalist. Born in Ohio,
1837. Has written " The Tenants of an Old Farm," " Honey
and Occident Ants," " Agricultural Ants of Texas." He is one
of the highest living authorities on ants and spiders.

Thomas Moore : A celebrated Irish poet. Born in Dublin,
1779; died, 1852. Wrote "National Melodies," "Irish Melo-
dies," " Lalla Rookh," and other volumes.

George P. Morris : An American poet and journalist. Born
in Philadelphia, 1802; died, 1864. Wrote several popular
poems, two of which are included in this volume.

Thomas Buchanan Read : An American poet and artist. Born
in Chester County, Pennsylvania, 1822; died, 1872. Wrote
" The House by the Sea,'^ " The Wagoner of the Alleghanies,"
and many short poems.

Mayne Reid : A novelist and writer of books for boys. Born
in Ireland, 1818 ; died, 1883. Some of his books are " The
Desert Home," " The Forest Exiles," " The Cliff Climbers,"
" Odd People."

Samuel F. Smith : An American clergyman. Born in Boston,
1808 ; died, 1895. He was the author of several lyrics, but is
remembered chiefly for the patriotic hymn, " America."

John Trumbull : A famous American painter. Born in Con-
necticut, 1756; died, 1843. His most important paintings,
including " Signing the Declaration of Independence," are
in the rotunda of the Capitol at Washington. Nearly all
are representations of important events in American history.

Joseph M. W. Turner : One of the greatest of English land-
scape painters. Born in London, 1775 ; died, 1851. According
to Kuskin, " he surpassed all former artists in the expression
of the infinite redundance of natural landscape." His greatest
paintings hang in the National Gallery in London.

Daniel Webster: A celebrated American statesman. Born
in New Hampshire, 1782 ; died, 1852. He was the greatest
of American orators, and one of the noblest of American
patriots.

Thomas Westwood: An English poet. Born, 1814; died,
1888. He wrote "Beads from a Kosary," "The Burden of
the Bell," and other volumes of poetry.

196

WORD LIST.

THE MOST DIFFICULT WORDS IN THE PRECEDLNa
LESSONS PRONOUNCED AND DEFINED.

-•o*-

KEY TO THE MARKS OF PRONUNCIATION.

Mark.

Name of Mark.

Macron . .

fate

mete

fine

note

tube

fly

iiiodn

Breve. . . .

fftt

m6t

fin

ndt

tilb

hymn

good

,A>

Circumflex

fare

thgre

• • • •

bOrn

bCirn

• •

Dots above

arm

• • • •

police

• • • •

••

Dots below

all

••

• • • •

••

rude

••

•

Dot above .

grass

• • • •

son

• • • •

•

Dot below .

what

•

- • • •

• • • •

wolf

push

Wave. . . .

• • • •

her

dirt

• • • •

Bar .....

....

they

• • • •

c (unmarked) or e, as in can.

c, as in cent = s.

ch (unmarked), as in child.

c, as in machine = sh.

ch, as in chorus = k.

g or g (unmarked), as in go.

s (unmarked) , except when used at
the end of plural nouns or of
verbs in the third person singular,
sharp, as in so.

8, like z, as in rose.

th (unmarked), as in thin.

^, as in this.

n, as in iok = ng.

^, as in e^act = gz,

ph (unmarked), as in photograph

= /.
qu (unmarked), as in quit = kw.

wh (unmarked), as in white = hw.

ab oey. a building or home for
monks or nuns. A church
connected with a monastery.

ac cSm'plish. To do ; perform ;

complete,
ac qiJire'. To gain ; win ; obtain.

197

ac'tU al ly. Really.
a dSp'tion. Acceptance.
a domed'. Beautified,
advan'tage. Benefit; service.
advSh'ture. a daring enter-
prise, [suggestion.
ad vi^e . An opinion given ; a
af flxed^ Added at the end.
a ghast^ Strack with terror,
ag'i ta ted. stirred up.

a gree'a ble. Pleasant.

a kln^ Related.

arde r man . An officer.

a lighted. Got down.

al lud'ed. Referred to.

a maze'ment. Astonishment.

an Vll. An iron block upon which

metals are hammered,
anx'ious. Uneasy ; disturbed,
ap'pe tite. Desire for food.
arch'ers. Men who shoot with

bows and arrows.
ar'dor. Warmth ; great desire.
ar mor. Arms or covering for

defense. [substance.

ar tl cle. a particular object ; a
aSS^m'bly. a company met

together,
as t5n'ish ing. Causing wonder.

a sun'der. Apart.

at'mos phere (St'mos f er).

The air that surrounds us.
attSch'ment. Affection, [tice.
St tSn'tion (-shun). Heed ; no-

St'ti tude. Position,
at trSct'ed. Drawn towards,
awed (ad). Filled with wonder.
Sz'ure (Szh'ur). Sky-blue.
bal lad. a simple song of the
narrative kind.

bap ti§'mal name. Name given

to a child at christening,

barl)arOUS. Savage; cruel.

ba rSm'e ter. An instrument for
determining the pressure of
the atmosphere and proba-
ble changes in the weather.

base^eSS. without bottoms.

beach, shore washed by waves.

hearings (bar'ingz). Mean-
ings ; relations.

bgrioWS (bgrilis). An instru-
ment for driving air through
a tube.

ben e dic'tion. a blessing.

bgvles. Flocks.
be wailing. Grieving ; weeping,
blinking. Sparkling.
bliis'ter ing. Boasting ; noisy,
boll . A pod, or seed-vessel.

bombs (biims). Shells.

boVe al. Northern. [mined.

bound (I'll be). I am deter-
breach. a breaking; dispute.
broodlings. Little birds.
brOW§e. To graze ; to pasture.
bur'rOW. a hole made in the
ground by an animal.

198

bus'tle (biis's'l). Noise ; great
stir.

canoe' (kanoo'). a small

boat driven by a paddle.
Can'ter. An easy gallop, [tares.
Cap'tor. One who seizes, or cap-
Ca rOU^'ing. Drinking ; feasting.
cSv'al cade, a procession on
horseback, [room overhead.
Qeiring (sering). Lining of a

9el e bra'tion (-shun). Act of

honoring or celebrating.

qer'e mo ny (ser'e mo ny).

A form of civility or re-
ligious observance.

chap'el. A little church.

charm. a magical influence.

chime, a set of bells arranged
to ring a tune ; to sound
in harmony.

choir (kwir) . a band of singers.

chorus (ko'rus). Parts of a
song occurring at intervals;
the singers of such parts.

qiv'i lized. Cultivated ; refined.

claimed (klam'd). Demanded.

clus'tered. Collected closely to-
gether.

COax'ing. Persuading, [or teeth.

cSgVheels. wheels with cogs

cSro nies. Settlements made in
a foreign country by per-
sons who are still subject
to the mother country.

com'fort er (kura'fSrt er).

One who comforts or makes
cheerful ; a woolen scarf,
com mand'ment. An order; a
charge. [rade; partner.

companion (-yon), a com-
compas'sion(-pash'un). Pity

compelled'. Obliged; forced,
com plain'ing. Murmuring,
con Qeals'. Hides.
cSn'fllct. A struggle ; contest.

con fu'sion (kSn fu'zhun).

Disorder; destruction.

con nec'tion (-shun). Union,
con'quer (kSn'ker). To over-
come, [conquering.

con'quest (kSn'kwest). a

cQn'se crated. Set apart to the

service of God.
con Sld'ered. Examined,
contempt', shame; disgrace;

insolent behavior.

con tSnd'ing. striving.

con t6nt'. Satisfied.
cSn'tentS. Things contained.
cSn'tinent. a grand division

of land.
C5n triv'anc es. Things planned.
c5n trived'. Planned ; invented.

c5n trolled' (k8ntrold'). Had

charge of ; restrained,
con vert'. To change ; to turn

from one belief to another.
c8r O na'tion. a crowning.

199

c8r'ri dors Passage-ways leading

to different apartments.
COUn'sel. Advice; opinion. "Took

counsel '* = considered.
COiir'age (kuraj). Bravery.
Crev'ig es. Cracks.
Crit'ic al. Dangerous; doubtful.
CrQft. A small field. [ressing.
dSriying. Trifling with; ca-
de bate . To argue ; a discussion.

deQeivlng (desevlng).

Leading into error.
dSdl eat ed . set apart solemnly

for some particular purpose.
de finance, a challenge.
deg ert. a barren tract; wilderness.

des o la'tion (-shun). Ruin.

dgs'per ate . Rash ; frantic ;
hopeless. [with dislike.
despised'. Looked down upon
de spoir. To plunder.

de striic'tion (-shun). Ruin ;

overthrow. [solved.

deter'mined (-mind). Re-
de void'. Empty ; destitute.

dfa logue (dfa 16g) . Con ver-

sation between two persons.
dis ap poinded. Failed of expec-
tation, [fortunate event.

dig as'ter (diz as'ter). An un-

dis cloged' (-klozd). Opened ;
made plain.

dis'cord. Strife; want of har-
mony.

dis cussed'. Talked about,
dlg'mal (diz'mal). Gloomy.

dis o bey' (d is o ba') . 'Jo neg-
lect to do what is bidden.

di§ §olved'. Melted ; separated.

dis'taff . Staff to hold a bunch of
flax from which thread is
spun.

dis tinct'. Plain ; separate.

d09'ile (dSs'll). Tame ; gentle.

dSr'mant. sleeping.

doubt (dout). Uncertainty.

drgad (dr6d). Fear of evil.

dwarfs. Very small people.

ech'oed (ek'od). Answered
back; repeated. [being.

ell. A fairy ; a small imaginary

Sroquence. Effective speech;
oratory.

em bat'tled. in battle array.

enam'eled. Decorated or cov-
ered with a glossy surface.

en dgav'or. To try ; effort.

en er get'ic. Determined.

en grossed' (gn grost').

Copied into a book,
en list'ing. Enrolling ; entering
on a list. [dertaking.

Sn'ter prise (-prize). An un-

en ti'tled. Named ; called,
es COrt'ing. Protecting,
esteemed', valued; regarded
highly. [vapor,

e Vap'o rat ing. Passing off in

200

ex Sm'ine (gg zSm'm). To

look into.
ex 9eed'ing. More than usual.
ex pe'ri ence. Knowledge

gained by trial ; practice.

ex pres'sion (-shun), a mode

of speech or utterance.
ex tract'ed. Taken from,
fal ter. To hesitate ; to totter.

famiriar (-yar). Well-known;

common.
fam'ine. Scarcity ; dearth,
fashioned, shaped; made.
ferVor. Heat; energy.
fi'ber. a thread.
final. Ending; last.
f it'ful ly . Irregularly ; by fits.
fluffy. Like down.

for bear' (for bar'). To delay;

give up ; avoid.

fore'fa thers. Ancestors.

f Or'eign (f Sr'in). Distant ; out-
side; strange.

forge (forj). a place where
metals are wrought by heat-
ing and hammering.

foun da'tion. Bottom ; base.

frig ate. a war vessel smaller
than a ship of the line.

fflr'na^e. Place for inclosing a
hot fire for melting metals,
heating a house, etc.

fur'row. A trench made by a
plow; SL groove.

game, wild meats for the table ;
animals hunted by sports-
men.

gauze (gaz). a thin, transparent
fabric, generally silk.

gen'erous (jeneriis). No-
ble ; open-handed.

gird'ed. Encircled; clothed.

glade. A cleared space in woods.

g8s'sa iner. a fine, filmy sub-
stance, like cobwebs, float-
ing in the air.

gOv'erned. Ruled. [controls.

gOv'ernor. One who rules or

gran'deur. Vastness ; greatness.

gran'u lat ed. Made into grains.

grate'£ul . Thankful.

greetings. Expressions of kind-
ness or joy.

gren a dier' (-der') . Soldier,
gro'schen (gro'shen) . a

piece of money worth
about two cents, [havior.

guise (giz). Cover: cloak; be-

gyp'sies (jip'siz). a peculiar
race of people who have no
settled homes, and live by
theft, fortune-telling, etc.

ham'per. a large basket for
packing.

ha n't. Have not.

har'di hood. Boldness ; pluck.

har'bor. a place of refuge or
&%i«ty tor ships.

201

har mo ny. Agreement; concord,
liav'oc. Destruction,
haz'ard. Risk ; to risk. ** At all

hazards*' = let come what

may.
headlong. Headforemost ;

rashly. [place,

hearth. Fireside; floor of a fire-
heartl ly. sincerely.
hea'then. An idolater, [grace.

Heav'en-rgs'cued. Saved by

heir (ar). one entitled to suc-
ceed to property after the
death of its owner.

iiel met. a defensive covering
for the head.

hiriocks. Small hills, [wages.

ilire hng. One who serves for

his to'ri an. a writer of history.

hold (of a ship), interior of a
vessel below the lower deck.

hon'or (8n ur) . To regard with
respect ; fidelity ; high rank.

ho ri'zon. The place where earth
and sky seem to meet.

host. A landlord ; a multitude.

hSs'tler (hSs sler). One who

has charge of horses.

hu'mor. state of mind; pleas-
antry. "Out of humor'*
= vexed.

husks. The outer covering of cer-
tain grains and fruits.

illumed'. Made bright.

im Sg'i na ry (Im ajln a ry).

Not real ; fancied,
im pa'tience. Restlessness,
im p8s'si ble. That can not be.
in ca'pa ble. Lacking ability,
in Ql dent. Event ; occurrence.

increase (inkres' or in'-

kres) . Growth ; addi-
tion ; enlargement.

in de pend'ence. Freedom from
control.

in d ul g'ing. Giving up to.

in test . To trouble ; annoy.

in'flu en^e. Moving power ; au-
thority.

in hab'it ants. Dwellers.

inh&b'ited. Having inhabitants.

inheritance. Possessions re-
ceived by an heir.

m laid . Ornamented by the in-
sertion of other substances.

in stinct. Natural impulse.

in Struc'tion (-shun), infor-
mation ; teaching.

in ter est. share ; concern ; to
entertain ; engage.

in'ter est ing. Entertaining.

intona'tion. a sounding the
tones of the musical scale.

in va sion (-zhun). Trespass ;
hostile inroad into another's
possessions.

i ron-S9ep'tered sway, stem,

202

Jul)! lant. Rejoicing.

] Ua ge. Am agistrate appointed to
determine questions at law.

km'dred. Relatives ; members
of the same family.

knight (nit), a title; a man
admitted to military rank.

knowredge (nSrej). An ac-
quaintance with a fact,
truth, or duty.

lan'guage (lan'gwaj).

Speech ; form of expression.
ISad'en (led'n). Made of lead,
league. Friendly treaty.

ISg'end (lej'end) . a story of

the past ; a fable.

16op ard. a large spotted ani-
mal of southern Asia.

liv mg. Estate ; means of sub-
sistence ; manner of life.

loiter ing. Lingering ; delaying.

lu na tic. An insane person.

lu'rid. Pale yellow ; ghastly.

man kind'. The human race.

man' tie. a cloak.

marsh'y. Swampy.

mar'tial (-shal). Warlike,
mar'tyr (-ter). One put to

death for his religion.

mea'ger (me'ger). Thin ;

lean ; destitute of strength.

mSch'an ism (mgk'an izm).

The arrangement of the
parts of a machine.

mSro dy. a sweet or agreeable

succession of sounds.
mSm'o ry. Remembrance.

men ag'er ie(m8n azh'er y).

Show of wild animals.

mSs'sage. Word sent from one
person to another, [sages.

mes'sen gers. Gamers of mes-

me'te or. a luminous body seen
in or above the atmosphere.

mi'cro scope. An instrument
for making enlarged images
of small objects. [tery.

min ster. a church of a monaS"

mis'sal. A Mass-book.

mSn'aS ter y . a house or dwell-
ing for monks.

monks (miinks). Men who re-
tire from the world and de-
vote themselves to religion.

mSn'ster. something of unnatu-
ral size, shape, or character.

mSn'u ment. Something stand-
ing in remembrance of a
person, or past event.

moored . Fastened with cables to
the shore ; anchored.

moor'l and . Waste land covered
with patches of heath.

mor tal. a human being.

m6r'tal w ound . a wound that

will cause death.
mSr'tar. a mixture of sand,
lime, and water.

203

move'ments. Motions.
muffled . Wrapped in something
to deaden sound.

mur^miir. a low, confused

sound ; to grumble.

myr'i ads (mir i adz). Tens

of thousands.

mys te'ri ous (mis te'ri us).

Hard to understand,
nar ratted. Told; related.

na'tion al (nash'un al). Pub-
lic ; belonging to the nation.

na tives. People bom in a coun-
try or place mentioned.

neigh'bor ing (na bor ing).

Near at hand.

nerv'ous. Sensitive ; timid.

night'm^re. a distressing sen-
sation in sleep.

no'bles. Men of high rank.

nSs'trils. The channels through
the nose. [ported.

nAr'tured. Nourished; sup-

obliged'. "I am obliged to
you"=I am indebted to
you; thank you.

oc ca'sion (ok ka'zhun). a

favorable time ; occur-
rence; opportunity.

O pmlon (-yiin). Decision;
judgment.

op poge'. To resist ; set against.

op pressed' (-prSst). Treated
cruelly; overburdened.

OUt'ly ing. Lying at some dis-
tance from the main body.
O vSl. Shaped like an egg.
pSriid. Pale; wan.

par'a dise (-dis, not -diz). The

abode of the blessed.

pa'triot. One who loves his
country.

pat'ron iz ing. Aiding ; acting
as a guardian. [dried.

pgm'mi can. Meat cut thin and

per se vere'. To keep on trying.

persuade' (-SWad). To influ-
ence ; plead with.

pil grims. Wanderers ; strangers.

pi'ous (pfus). Good ; religious.

plSqld (plSs'id). Smooth ; un-
ruffled.

plead. To beg for pity ; to speak

by way of persuasion.

po em. An imaginative composi-
tion beautifully written.

poige. To balance ; to hold up.

po llt'ic al. Pertaining to public
affairs.

pol lu'tion (-shun), impurity.

por'tal. A door ; gateway.

pOS ses'sion (-shun). Owner-
ship ; something owned.

prai'ries (pra'riz). wide plains

covered with grass.
prSn^'ing. Springing or bound-
ing as a horse in high
mettle.

204

prS'gious (prSsh'us). Of great

price or value.

pre gerved'. Kept from injury.

pri Qe'l ess. Precious ; above price.

pri or. One who has charge of a
priory or abbey.

prSclama'tion. a proclaiming.

pro duQe'. To bring ; to yield.

prSd'uge. That which is yielded.

pro found'. Deep ; thorough.

profu'§ion (-zhun). Abun-
dance, [face on the ground.

prone. Prostrate ; lying with the

pro phet'ic ar'dor. Having

the enthusiasm of one who
speaks in God's name.

prSs'trate. Lying at length ; to
level ; overthrow.

pro Vid'ed. Prepared ; supplied.

pub'lished. Made known ; sent
out. [vegetable matter.

pulp. A moist mass of animal or

pul'ver ized. Ground.

piiz'zling. Hard to understand.

pyr'amids. Solid bodies stand-
ing on a broad base and
terminating in a point at
the top.

quaint (kwant). odd ; fanciful.

quar tette' (kwar tet"). a

set of four persons who
perform a piece of music
in four parts,
quest (kwSst). Search ; pursuit.

quips (kwipSy. Taunts; jests.

quiv'ers (kwiv'erz). Trem-
bles; shakes; shudders.

quoth (kwoth). Said.

raged. Was furious; stormed.
»* The battle still raged " -
continued furiously.

rSm'parts. The main embank-
ments or walls around a
fortified place ; bulwarks.

ran SOm. Redemption ; payment
made for freedom or pardon.

rap'ture. Delight ; extreme joy.

re as SUred'. Assured again ;
made very sure.

re'^ent ly. Lately, [atone for.

re deem . To ransom ; rescue ;

re flect'ed . Bent or thrown back.

ref U ge . Place of safety.

re fused' (re ftizd'). Denied a

request, command, or gift,
re'gion (re'jun). Country.

rehearsed' (rehersf). Re-

peated ; practiced.

reign (ran). Rule.

rein (ran). The strap of a bridle

on each side ; to hold in.
re ject'ed. Refused.

relieved' (relevd'). Eased;

lightened ; released.
rSl'lsh . To have a pleasing taste ,
to taste with pleasure.

Speaking
against; objecting.

re mSn'strat ing.

205

•Sfi.^ .

re mot est. Farthest away,
re nOWn'. Praise ; state of being

much known,
re p^ir'ing. Mending ; restoring.
re peat'ed . Said again,
repent'ed. Felt sorrow or regret.
re port . Account ; relation ; to

give an account of.
rep re gSnt'ing. Acting in place

of ; portraying ; exhibiting.
reproach\ Blame; censure,
re pub'lic. a country in which

the people make the laws,
re quired\ Demanded,
re §em'bles. To be like.

re §ist' (re zist'). To oppose.

re gist'ance. Opposition.

re§ o lu'tion (rgz o lu'shun).

Decision ; purpose.
re specf^. Regard ; esteem.
rSst'ive. stubborn; uneasy.
re treat'. The act of retiring ; to

withdraw. [echoing,

re verb'er at ing. Resounding;
re ward . Recompense ; to give

in return.

rhyme (rim), a composition in

verse ; harmony,
rid'i Culed. Laughed at.

rife'. Full.

right'eous (rrdius). Free

from sin. [boisterous.

ri ot OUS. Running to excess ;
ri val. One who is in pursuit of

the same object as another ;

to strive to equal or excel,
rlv'et ed. Fastened with a rivet

or small bolt.
ro manqe'. a tale of adventure ;

a work of fiction,
rtid'der. That by means of which

a vessel is guided or steered.
rii ral. Belonging to the country.

Salomon (sam'mun). a kind

of fish.

sal U taction, a greeting.

scenes (senz). views ; exhibi-
tions ; landscapes.

scheme (skem). pian; plot.

scythe (sith). An instrument
for mowing grass or grain.

Sea'far ing. Following the busi-
ness of a sailor. [tion.

sSc'onded. Supported the mo-

se'cret (se'kret). Hidden.

seize (sez). To grasp; take.
sSnseleSS. without feeling ;

foolish.
s8n'ti nel. a watchman.
serene'. Bright; clear; calm.
se'ri OUS ly. Gravely ; earnestly.
s6t'tlement. a place newly

settled.

sheathed (shethd). inclosed

in a long case or sheath.
sheen. Brightness ; splendor.
show'er y. Raining in showers.

206

= yellow curls falling softly

and abundantly.
slm 1 lar. Like, [cords j muscles.
Sin'ews (sin'uz). Tendons ;
sires (sirz). Fathers; ancestors.
Site. Place; position.

skew'er (sku'er). a pin of wood

or metal for fastening meat
in place while it is roasting.

slaugh'ter (sla'ter). The act

of killing ; butchery,
sledge. A heavy hammer.
Smelt'ing. Melting, as ore.
soothing. Calming ; comforting,
sore. **Grieved him sore"

= troubled him greatly.
SpSc'ta Cle. a noteworthy sight ;

a glass for aiding the sight.
Spgc'ulate. To buy with the

expectation of selling at a

great advance.
sphinx (sfinks). An image in

stone having the head of a

man and the body of a lion,
spirit ed . Lively ; full of life.

sporting prints. "Room

hung with " = pictures of
hunting and racing hung
on the walls.

sprightly. Spiritedly; briskly.

stately. Noble.

sta'tioned (sta'shund). Made

to stand or stay. [metal,
stat lie. An image in stone or

steal. ** steal away " = to go or
take away secretly.

stir'rup (ster'rup). a bent

piece of metal or wood to
receive the foot of a rider.

stores. ** Weapons and stores"
= weapons and supplies of
food and other necessaries.

strand, shore or beach.

sub dued'. Overcame.

siib lHne^ Lofty; noble, [erty.

Sub'stan^e. Body; matter; prop-

suc Qeed' (suk seed'). To fol-
low in the same place ;
accomplish what is wished.

sue Qes'sor. Follower, [propose.

SUgg6st'(sUgj6st'). Tohint;

Suit'a ble. Proper ; fitting.

sum'mon ing. Calling.

SU pe'ri or. Greater.

Sii per Stl'tious. Having exces-
sive reverence or fear for
that which is unknown.

Surged. Moved back and forth.

sur vey' (sur va'). To take a
view of; to examine.

swath. Line of grass cut and
thrown together by the
scythe. [to direct.

sway (swa). Rule; govern;

tally ho. A coach.

tSrons. Claws, [cule ; jeer at.

taunt (tant). To mock ; ridi-

tS v'ern . a hotel ; a public house.

207

teregrSph (tgregraf). An

instrument for transmitting
words quickly to a distance.

tem'pled. Containing temples
or churches.

tgnse. stretched tightly.

thanes. Noblemen.

theme. Subject; text, [things.

the O ry. Doctrine ; scheme of

thor'ough ly (thiir'o ly).

Fully; entirely.
threshed. Beaten soundly, [ing.
thwack'ing. Banging; thump-
tim'o thy. A kind of grass,
tomb (t5om). Place of burial,
to'tal ly. Wholly ; altogether.
tow'er ing. very high ; lofty.
trans gressed'. offended; done

wrong.
trea'cle (tre'kl). Molasses.

treag'ured (trgzh'yurd).

Laid up ; highly valued.

trSnch'er. Large, wooden plate.

tried. *» seven times tried" =
purified, or refined, again
and again. [to prevail.

tri'umph (tri'timf). victory;

trow'el (trou'6l). a mason's
tool for spreading mortar.

tru^e. A temporary peace.

tu^miilt. Great commotion.

tflrlDU lent. Disturbed ; agi-
tated, [his subjects.

ty rant, a ruler who oppresses

— /

U ni gon. Harmony ; agreement.

Un ob gerved'. Not seen or no-
ticed, [without reason.

un rea§'on a ble. immoderate ;

Va Use' (va les'). a small sack
or case for containing
clothes of a traveler.

vSror. Courage.

vSn'quished. Overcame.

vas'sal. Subject; servant.

VIC to'ri OUS . Triumphant.

Vlg'or OUS. Strong. [be seen.

Vl§ i ble (viz'l bl). That can

VO tive. Consecrated ; devoted.

Wain'sCOt ed. Lined with boards.

wallet (wSriet). a knapsack ;
a small bag. [manner.

War'ble. To sing in a trilling

war'rior (war yiir). a soldier.

Waxed(wSkst). Grew; became.

Weap'onS (wep'unz). instru-
ments to fight with.

wharf. A platform where ships
take and discharge their
cargo. [horse.

whin'nies. Cries or calls like a
Whlth'er SO ev'er. To what-
ever place. [huts.

WlgVamS (-wSmz). Indian

Wmd'rOWS. Lines of hay raked
together.

Wizards. Magicians; enchanters.

wdod'chiick. a ground hog.

wrecked (rekt). Broken to

pieces; ruined.

208

PROPER NAMES PRONOUNCED.

Adele (adelg).
JEUa (61'la).
Alban (al'ban).
Amazon (&m'azon).
Arabia(ara'bla).
Arabs (^r'abz).
Augustine (a'gust^n).

Baltimore (bal't!m6r).

Beomred (b6 6rn'r6d).

Berkeley Manor (b^rk'ly mSn'or).

Brandon (briu'don).

Brazil (brazil').

Britain (brit'in).

Canterbury (can'terbgrr^).
Christmas (krist'mas).
Concord (k6nk'6rd).
Crispin (krls^pln).

Daniel (dan'y'l).
Delaware (dfil'awar).
Derwent (d6r'w6nt).
Dorlcote (d6rl'k6t).
Draupner ^drap'nSr).

Egypt (P :ipt).
Egyptian (6 jTp'shun).
Ethelbert (6th'elb5rt).
Europe (u'rup).
Ezekiel (6z6'klel).

Florida (fl6r1dA).
tTey (fri).

Galilee (gai'Ile).
Granada (grana'da).
Gregory (grgg'orj^).
Gungner (gung'nSr).
Guy (gi).

Hardrada rhardra'da).
Hesperus (h6s'p5r lis) .
Herodotus (h6r6d'0tiis).
Hildebrand (hll'de brind)

Isabella (!z a h^Vlk)
Italian (Itai'yan).
Ivald (I'vftld).

Japan (j&pSn').

La Rabida (l&rab1d&).
Leicester (16s't6r).
Lexington . (I§x1ng ttin).
Loki (I0'kl)._
Louisiana (loo 6 z6 &'na).

Mahon (mahOn').
Mercia (mgr'sliga).
Michigan (mish'igan).
Mjolner (my61'n6r).
Moors (moorz).

Newfoundland (nu'f Cind l&nd),
Nifia (ngn'ya).
Normandy (ndr'mJndy).
Norwegian (ndrwfijln).

Odin (O'din).
Offa (6£fa).
Ouse (ooz).

Palos (pa'lOs).
Perez (p6'r§z).
Phoenix (fg'niks).
Pinta (pln'tA).

Higan (rg'gSn).
Rouen (r6b6n').

Salamanca (sai&man'k&).
San Salvador (san saiv&dOr'*).
Santa Maria (sftn t& m&r6'a).
Senlac (s6nMak).
Sindre (sln'd6r).
Skidbladner (skld'blftd nSr).
Swegen (swfi'gen).

Teutonic (tdtSnlk).
Thanet (thSn'St).
Thingferth (thIngfSrth).
Thor (thdr).

Verulam (v6r'65l5m).
Vincent (vIn'sSnt).

Wsermund (w&r'mttnd).
Winfrith (win'frlth).

SCHOOL READING BY GRADES

FIFTH YEAR

JAMES BALDWIN

NEW YORK ■;■ CINCINNATI ;■ CHICAGO

AMEKICAN BOOK COMPANY

8CU. READ. FIFTH TEAR.
W. P. 3

PREFACE.

Thb pupil who has read the earlier numbers of this series is now pre-
pared to study with some degree of care the peculiarities of style which
distinguish the different selections in the present volume. Hence, while
due attention must be given to the study of words merely as words, —
that is to spelling, defining, and pronouncing, — considerable time should
be occupied in observing and discussing the literary contents, the author's
manner of narrating a story, of describing an action or an appearance, of
portraying emotion, of producing an impression upon the mind of the
reader or the hearer. The pupils should be encouraged to seek for and
point out the particular passages or expressions in each selection which
are distinguished for their beauty, their truth, or their peculiar adapta-
bility to the purpose in view. The habit should be cultivated of looking
for and enjoying the admirable qualities of any literary production, and
particularly of such productions as are by common consent recognized
as classical.

The lessons in this volume have been selected and arranged with a
view towards several ends : to interest the young reader ; to cultivate a
taste for the best style of literature as regards both thought and expres-
sion ; to point the way to an acquaintance with good books ; to appeal to
the pupil's sense of duty, and strengthen his desire to do right ; to arouse
patriotic feelings and a just pride in the achievements of our country-
men ; and incidentally to add somewhat to the learner's knowledge of
history and science and art.

The illustrations will prove to be valuable adjuncts to the text. Spell-
ing, defining, and punctuation should continue to receive special attention.
Difficult words and idiomatic expressions should be carefully studied with
the aid of the dictionary and of the Word List at the end of this volume.
Persistent and systematic practice in the pronunciation of these words
and of other difficult combinations of sounds will aid in training the
pupils' voices to habits of careful articulation and correct enunciation.

While literary biography can be of but little, if any, value in culti-
vating literary taste, it is desirable that pupils should acquire some knowl-
edge of the writers whose productions are placed before them for study.
To assist in the acquisition of this knowledge, and also to serve for ready
reference, a few Biographical Notes are inserted towards the end of the
volume. The brief suggestions given on page 6 should be read and com-
mented upon at the beginning, and frequently referred to and practically
applied in the lessons which follow.

CONTENTS.

ADAPTED FROM PAGE

Something about Books John Buskin 7

Old Chiron's School Charles Kingsley ... 12

The Dog of Montargis Old Legend 19

The Old Oaken Bucket Samuel Woodworth ... 29

The Village Blacksmith Henry W. Longfellow . . 30

The Choice of Hercules 34

Christmas at the Cratchits' .... Charles Dickens .... 37

On the Mountain St. Matthew 45

Betsey Hull's Wedding Nathaniel Hawthorne . . 48

Ulysses and the Cyclops Horner^ s ^^ Odyssey'''' . . 54

The Brook Alfred Tennyson .... 67

The Lady of Shalott Alfred Tennyson .... 70

Lessons from Nature's Book .... Sir Archibald Geikie . . 79

The Goodman of Ballengiech . . . Sir Walter Scott .... 87

Bugle Song Alfred Tennyson .... 92

Some Experiences at Sea Bichard Henry Dana, Jr. . 93

Daniel Boone George Bancroft .... 100

Fulton's First Steamboat Bohert Fulton .... 108

The Planting of the Apple Tree . . . William Cullen Bryant . Ill

The Corn Song John G . Whittier . ... 114

Hunting the Walrus 117

The Destruction of Pompeii.

I. History Charles Kingsley . . . 124

II. Romance Sir E. Biilwer Lytton . . 130

ADAPTED FROM

The Stranger on the Sill Thomas Buchanan Bead .

Our Country.

I. What is Our Country ?

II. Liberty and Union . .

III. Our Sacred Obligations

A Legend of Sleepy Hollow

The Mariner's Dream . .

The Sands o' Dee . . .
The Invention of Printing
The Wanderer ....
Lead Thou Me on . . .
The American Indian . .
The Passing of King Aithur

Biographical Notes . .

Word List

Proper Names Pronounced

Thomas Orimke .
Daniel Webster .
Daniel Webster .
Washington Irvine/
William Dimond .
Charles Kingsley .

Eugene Field . .
John Henry Newman
Charles Sprague . .
Sir Thomas Malory

PAGE

140

142
143
144
146
166
169
170
183
184
185
187

193
196
208

Acknowledgments are due to Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons, pub-
lishers of the works of Eugene Field, for permission to use the poem
entitled "The Wanderer"; to Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., pub-
lishers of the works of H. W. Longfellow and J. G. Whittier, for the use
of ** The Village Blacksmith " and " The Corn Song'' ; and to The J. B.
Lippincott Company, publishers of the poems of T. Buchanan Read, for
the piece entitled **The Stranger on the Sill."

TO THE LEARNER.

A FAMOUS writer has said that the habit of reading is one's pass to
the greatest, the purest, the mog'i perfect pleasures that have been pre-
pared for human beings. "But," he continued, "you cannot acquire
this habit in your old age ; you cannot acquire it in middle age ; you
must do it now, when you are young. You must leam to read, and to
like reading now, or you cannot do so when you are old." Now, no one
can derive very great pleasure or very great profit from reading unless he
is able to read well. The boy or girl who stumbles over every hard word,
or who is at a loss to know the meaning of this or that expression, is not
likely to find much enjoyment in books. To read well to one's self, one
must be able to read aloud in such a manner as to interest and delight
those who listen to him: and this is the chief reason why we have so
many reading books at school, and why your teachers are so careful that
you should acquire the ability to enunciate every sound distinctly, pro-
nounce every word properly, and read every sentence readily and with a
clear understanding of its meaning.

Is the reading exercise a task to you ? Try to make it a pleasure.
Ask yourself : What is there in this lesson that teaches me something
which I did not know before? What is there in this lesson that is
beautiful, or grand, or inspiring? Has the writer said anything in a
manner that is particularly pleasing — in a manner that perhaps no one
else would have thought to say it ? What particular thought or saying,
in this lesson, is so good and true that it is worth learning by heart and
remembering always. Does the selection as a whole teach an^'thing that
will tend to make me wiser, or better, or stronger than before ? Or is it
merely a source of temporary amusement to be soon forgotten and as
though it had never been ? Or does it, like fine music or a noble picture,
not only give present pleasure, but enlarge my capacity for enjoyment
and enable me to discover and appreciate beautiful things in literature
and art and nature which I would otherwise never have known ?

When you have asked yourself all these questions about any selection,
and have studied it carefully to find answers to them, you will be pre-
pared to read it aloud to your teacher and your classmates ; and you will
be surprised to notice how much better you have read it than would have
been the case had you attempted it merely as a task or as an exercise
in the pronouncing of words. It is by thus always seeking to discover
things instructive and beautiful and enjoyable in books, that one acquires
that right habit of reading which has been spoken of as the pass to the
greatest, the purest, the most perfect of pleasures.

SCHOOL READING.

FIFTH YEAR.

SOMETHING ABOUT BOOKS.

A beautiful book, and one profitable to those
who read it carefully, is "Sesame and Lilies" by
John Euskin. It ia beautiful be-
cause of the pleasant languagt lUil

6 choice words in which it is
written ; for, of all our later
writers, no one is the mas-
ter of a style more pure and
more delightful in its sim-

loplicity than Mr. Ruskin's.
It is profitable because of the
lessons which it teaches;
for it was written '' to show
somewhat the use and pre-

uciousness of good books, and to awaken in the minds
of young people some thought of the purposes of
the life into which they are entering, and the nature
of the world they have to conquer." The follow-

ing pertinent words concerning the choice of book
have been taken mainly from its pages:

All books may be divided into two classes, — books,
of the hour, and books of all time. Yet it is not
merely the bad book that does not last, and the good
one that does. There are good books for the hour
and good ones for all time ; bad books for the hour
and bad ones for all time.

The good book of the hour, — I do not speak
of the bad ones, — is simply the useful or pleasant t
talk of some person printed for you. Very useful
often, telling you what you need to know ; very
pleasant often, as a sensible friend's present talk
would be.

These bright accounts of travels, good-humored is
and witty discussions of questions, lively or pathetic
story-telling m the form of novel : all these are books
of the hour and are the peculiar possession of the
present age. We ought to be entirely thankful for
them, and entirely ashamed of ourselves if we make ao
no good, use of them. But we make the worst
possible use, if we allow them to usurp the place
of true books; for, strictly speaking, they are not
books at all, but merely letters or newspapers in
good print. 25

Our friend's letter may be delightful, or necessary,

to-day ; whether worth keeping or not, is to be con-
sidered. The newspaper may be entirely proper at
breakfast time, but it is not reading for all day.
So, though bound up in a volume, the long letter

> which gives you so pleasant an account of the inns
and roads and weather last year at such a place,
or which tells you some amusing story, or relates
such and such circumstances of interest, may not
be, in the real sense of the word, a hook at all, nor,

10 in the real sense, to be read.

A book is not a talked thing, but a written thing.
The book of talk is printed only because its author
can not speak to thousands of people at once ; if he
could, he would — the volume is mere multiplica-

16 tion of the voice. You can not talk to your friend
in India ; if you could, you would ; you write instead ;
that is merely a way of carrying the voice.

But a book is ivritteriy not to multiply the voice
merely, not to carry it merely, but to preserve it. The
20 author has something to say which he perceives to
be true and useful, or helpfully beautiful. So far as
he knows, no one has yet said it ; so far as he knows,
no one can say it. He is bound to say it, clearly and in
a melodious manner if he may ; clearly, at all events.
25 In the sum of his life he finds this to be the thing,
or group of things, manifest to him ; this the piece of
true knowledge, or sight, which his share of sunshine

and earth has allowed him to seize. He would set
it down forever ; carve it on a rock, if he could, say-
ing, " This is the best of me ; for the rest, I ate and
drank and slept, loved and hated, like another ; my
life was as the vapor, and is not; but this I saw
and knew; this, if anything of mine, is worth your
memory." That is his writing ; that is a hook.

Now books of this kind have been written in all
ages by their greatest men — by great leaders, great
statesmen, great thinkers. These are all at your i<?
choice ; and life is short. You have heard as much
before ; yet have you measured and mapped out this
short life and its possibilities ? Do you know, if you
read this, that you can not read that — that what you
lose to-day you can not gain to-morrow ? is

Will you go and gossip with the housemaid, or the
stableboy, when you may talk with queens and kings ?
Do you ask to be the companion of nobles ? Make
yourself noble, and you shall be. Do you long for
the conversation of the wise ? Learn to understand 20
it, and you shall hear it.

Very ready we are to say of a book, " How good
this is — that is just what I think ! " But the right
feeling is, " How strange that is ! I never thought
of that before, and yet I see it is true ; or if I do not 25
now, I hope I shall, some day."

But whether you feel thus or not, at least be sure

that you go to the author to get at his meaning, not
to find yours. And be sure also, if the author is
worth anything, that you will not get at his mean-
ing all at once ; nay, that at his whole meaning you

5 may not for a long time arrive in any wise. Not
that he does not say what he means, and in strong
words too; but he can not say it all, and, what is
more strange, will not, but in a hidden way in order
that he may be sure you want it.

10 When, therefore, you come to a good book, you
must ask yourself, " Am I ready to work as an Aus-
tralian miner would ? Are my pickaxes in good
order, and am I in good trim myself, my sleeves
well up to the elbow, and my breath good, and my

15 temper?" For your pickaxes are your own care,
wit, and learning ; your smelting furnace is your
own thoughtful soul. Do not hope to get at any
good author's meaning without these tools and that
fire ; often you will need sharpest, finest carving, and

20 the most careful melting, before you can gather one
grain of the precious gold.

I can not, of course, tell you what to choose for
your library, for every several mind needs different
books ; but there are some books which we all need,

25 and which if you read as much as you ought, you
will not need to have your shelves enlarged to right
and left for purposes of study.

If you want to understand any subject whatever,
read the best book upon it you can hear of. A
common book will often give you amusement, but
it is only a noble book that will give you dear
friends. 5

Avoid that class of literature which has a know-
ing tone; it is the most poisonous of all. Every
good book, or piece of book, is full of admiration
and awe ; and it always leads you to reverence or
love something with your whole heart. 10

-oojOio*^

OLD CHIRON'S SCHOOL.

^son was king of lolcus by the sea ; but for all
that, he was an unhappy man. For he had a step-
brother named Pelias, a fierce and lawless man who
was the doer of many a fearful deed, and about whom
many dark and sad tales were told. And at last^^
Pelias drove out ^son, his stepbrother, and took
the kingdom for himself, and ruled over the rich
town of lolcus by the sea.

And iEson, when he was driven out, went sadly
away from the town, leading his little son by the hancl V
and he said to himself, " I must hide the child in th^^
mountains, or Pelias will surely kill him, because fc^-^

is the heir." So he went up from the sea across the
valley, through the vineyards and the olive groves,
and across a foaming torrent toward Pelion, the
ancient mountain, whose brows are white with

» snow.

He went up and up into the mountain, over marsh
and crag, and down, till the boy was tired and foot-
sore, and ^son had to bear him in his arms, till he
came to the mouth of a lonely cave at the foot of a

10 mighty cliff. Above the cliff the snow wreaths hung,
dripping and cracking in the sun ; but at its foot,
around the cave's mouth, grew all fair flowers and
herbs, as if in a garden arranged in order, each
sort by itself. There they grew gayly in the sun-

15 shine, and in the spray of the torrent from above ;
while from the cave came a sound of music, and a
man's voice singing to the harp.

Then JEson put down the lad, and whispered :

" Fear not, but go in, and whomsoever you shall

20 find, lay your hands upon his knees, and say, ' In the
name of the Father of gods and men, I am your
guest from this day forth.' "

Then the lad went in without trembling, for he
too was a hero's son ; but when he was within, he

25 stopped in wonder, to listen to that magic song.

And there he saw the singer lying upon bearskins
and fragrant boughs; Chiron, the ancient Centaur,

the wisest of all beings beneath the sky. Down to
the waist he was a man ; but below he was a noble
horse ; his white hair rolled down over his broad
shoulders, and his white beard over his broad brown
chest ; and his eyes were wise and mild, and his 6
forehead like a mountain wall.

And in his hands he held a harp of gold, and
struck it wdth a golden key; and as he struck he
sang till his eyes glittered, and filled all the cave
with light. 10

And he sang of the birth of Time, and of the
heavens and the dancing stars ; and of the ocean, and
the ether, and the fire, and the shaping of the won-
drous earth. And he sang of the treasures of the
hills, and the hidden jewels of the mine, and thei5
veins of fire and metal, and the virtues of all healing
herbs ; and of the speech of birds, and of prophecy,
and of hidden things to come.

Then he sang of health, and strength, and man-
hood, and a valiant heart ; and of music and hunting, 20
and wrestling, and all the games which heroes love ;
and of travel, and wars, and sieges, and a noble
death in fight ; and then he sang of peace and plenty,
and of equal justice in the land ; and as he sang, the
boy listened wide-eyed, and forgot his errand in the 25
song.

And at last Chiron was silent, and called the lad

with a soft voice. And the lad ran trembling to
him, and would have laid his hands upon his knees ;
but Chiron smiled, and said, "Call hither your
father ^son; for I know you and all that has

6 befallen you."

Then ^son came in sadly, and Chiron asked him,
^' Why came you not yourself to me, ^son ? ''

And ^son said : "I thought, Chiron will pity the
lad if he sees him come alone ; and I wished to try

10 whether he was fearless, and dare venture like a
hero's son. But now I entreat you, let the boy be
your guest till better times, and train him among the
sons of the heroes that he may become like them,
strong and brave."

15 And Chiron answered : " Go back in peace and
bend before the storm like a prudent man. This boy
shall not leave me till he has become a glory to you
and to your house."

And ^son wept over his son and went away ; but

20 the boy did not weep, so full was his fancy of that
strange cave, and the Centaur, and his song, and the
playfellows whom he was to see. Then Chiron put
the lyre into his hands, and taught him how to play
it, till the sun sank low behind the cliff, and a shout

25 was heard outside. And then in came the sons of
the heroes, — ^neas, and Hercules, and Peleus, and
many another mighty name.

And great Chiron leaped np joyfully, and hia
hoofs made the cave resound, as they shouted, " Come
out. Father Chiron ; come out and see our game."
And one cried, "I have killed two deer," and an-

la of the horoei

other, "I took a wild cat among the crags." And i
Hercules dragged a wild goat after him by its
horns ; and Cseneus carried a bear cub under each
arm, and laughed when they scratched and bit;
for neither tooth nor steel could wound him. And
Chiron praised them all, each according to his n
deserts.

Only one walked apart and silent, ^sculapius, the

too wise child, with his bosom full of herbs and
flowers, and round his wrist a spotted snake ; he
came with downcast eyes to Chiron, and whis-
pered how he had watched the snake cast his old
5 skin, and grow young again before his eyes, and
how he had gone down into a village in the vale,
and cured a dying man with a herb which he had
90exi a sick goat eat. And Chiron smiled and said :

*^ To each there has been given his own gift, and
10 each is worthy in his place. But to this child there
has been given an honor beyond all honors, — to cure
while others kill."

Then some of the lads brought in wood, and split

it, and lighted a blazing fire ; and ofliers skinned

15 the deer and quartered them, and set them to roast

before the fire ; and while the venison was cooking

they bathed in the snow torrent, and washed away

the dust and sweat. And then all ate till they could

eat no more — for they had tasted nothing since the

20 dawn — and drank of the clear spring water, for

wine is not fit for growing lads. And when the

remnants were put away, they all lay down upon

the skins and leaves about the fire, and each took

the lyre in turn, and sang and played with all his

25 heart.

And after a while they all went out to a plot of
grass at the cave's mouth, and there they boxed, and

SCH. READ. V. 2

ran, and wrestled, and laughed till the stones fell
from the cliffs.

Then Chiron took his lyre, and all the lads
joined hands ; and as he played, they danced to
his measure, in and out, and round and round. 5
There they danced hand in hand, till the night fell
over land and sea, while the black glen shone with
their broad white limbs, and the gleam of their
golden hair.

And the lad danced witli them, delighted, and 10
then slept a wholesome sleep, upon fragrant leaves
of bay, and myrtle, and marjoram, and flowers of
thyme ; and rose at the dawn, and bathed in the
torrent, and •became a schoolfellow to the heroes'
sons. And in course of time he forgot lolcus, and 15
^son his father, and all his former life. But he
grew strong, and brave, and cunning, upon the
rocky heights of Pelion, in the keen, hungry, moun-
tain air. And he learned to wrestle, and to box,
and to hunt, and to play upon the harp ; and, next, 20
he learned to ride, for old Chiron often allowed him
to mount upon his back ; and he learned the virtues
of all herbs, and how to cure all wounds ; and Chiron
called him Jason the healer, and that is his name
until this day. ^

— From ''The Heroes; or Greek Fairy Tales/' by Charles
Kingsley.

THE DOG OF MONTARGIS.

In the old castle of Montargis in France, there
was once a stone mantelpiece of workmanship so
rare that it was talked about by the whole country.
And yet it was not altogether its beauty that caused

5 people to speak of it and remember it. It was
famous rather on account of the strange scene that
was carved upon it. To those who asked about its
meaning, the old custodian of the castle would some-
times tell the following story.

10 It happened more than five hundred years ago,
when this castle was new and strong, and people
lived and thought in very different sort from what
they do now. Among the young men of that time
there was none more noble than Aubrey de Mont-

15 didier, the nephew of the Count of Montargis ; and

among all the knights who had favor at the royal

court, there was none more brave than the young

Sieur de Narsac, captain of the king's men at arms.

Now these two men were devoted friends, and

20 whenever their other duties allowed them, they were
sure to be in each other's company. Indeed, it was
a rare thing to see either of them walking the streets
of Paris alone.

*^I will meet you at the tournament to-morrow,"

said Aubrey gayly, one evening, as he was parting
from his friend.

" Yes, at the tournament to-morrow," said De
Narsac ; " and be sure that you come early."

The tournament was to be a grand affair. A 5
gentleman from Provence was to run a tilt with a
famous Burgundian knight. Both men were noted
for their horsemanship and their skill with the lance.
All Paris would be out to see them.

When the time came, De Narsac was at the place lo
appointed. But Aubrey failed to appear. What
could it mean ? It was not at all like Aubrey to
forget his promise ; it was seldom that he allowed
anything to keep him away from the tournament.

" Have you seen my friend Aubrey to-day ?" De i5
Narsac asked this question a hundred times. Every-
body gave the same answer, and wondered what had
happened.

The day passed and another day came, and still
there was no news from Aubrey. De Narsac had 20
called at his friend's lodgings, but could learn noth-
ing. The young man had not been seen since the
morning before the tournament.

Three days passed, and still not a word. De
Narsac was greatly troubled. He knew now that 25
some accident must have happened to Aubrey. But
what could it have been ?

Early in the morning of the fourth day he was
aroused by a strange noise at his door. He dressed
himself in haste and opened it. A dog was crouch-
ing there. It was a greyhound, so poor that its
6 ribs stuck out, so weak that it could hardly stand.

De Narsac knew the animal without looking at

the collar on its neck. It was Dragon, his friend

Aubrey's greyhound, — the dog who went with him

whenever he walked out, the dog who was never

10 seen save in its master's company.

The poor creature tried to stand. His legs
trembled from weakness ; he swayed from side to
side. He wagged his tail feebly, and tried to put
his nose in De Narsac's hand. De Narsac saw at
15 once that he was half starved ; that he had not had
food for a long time.

He led the dog into his room and fed him some

warm milk. He bathed the poor fellow's nose and

bloodshot eyes with cold water. " Tell me where is

20 your master," he said. Then he set before him a

full meal that w^ould have tempted any dog.

The greyhound ate heartily, and seemed to be

much stronger. He licked De Narsac's hands. He

fondled his feet. Then he ran to the door and

26 tried to make signs to his friend to follow him. He

whined pitifully.

De Narsac understood. '' You want to lead me to

your master, I see/' He put on his hat and went
out with the dog.

Through the narrow lanes and crooked streets of
the old city, Dragon led the way. At each corner
he would stop and look back to make sure that De s
Narsac was following. He went over the long
bridge — the only one that spanned the river in
those days. Then he trotted out through the gate
of St. Martin and into the open country beyond the
walls. 10

In a little while the dog left the main road and
took a bypath that led into the forest of Bondy. De
Narsac kept his hand on his sword now, for they
were on dangerous ground. The forest was a great
resort for robbers and lawless men, and more than 15
one wild and wicked deed had been enacted there.

But Dragon did not go far into the woods. He
stopped suddenly near a dense thicket of briers
and tangled vines. He whined as though in great
distress. Then he took hold of the sleeve of De 20
Narsac's coat, and led him round to the other side
of the thicket.

There under a low-spreading oak the grass had
been trampled down ; there were signs, too, of
freshly turned-up earth. With moans of distress 25
the dog stretched himself upon the ground, and
with pleading eyes looked up into De Narsac's face.

" Ah, my poor fellow ! " said De Narsac, " you
have led me here to show me your master's grave."
And with that he turned and hurried back to the
city ; but the dog would not stir from his place.

5 That afternoon a company of men, led by De

Narsac, rode out to the forest. They found in the

ground beneath the oak what they had expected —

the murdered body of young Aubrey de Montdidier.

" Who could have done this foul deed ? " they

10 asked of one another ; and then they wept, for they
all loved Aubrey.

They made a litter of green branches, and laid the
body upon it. Then, the dog following them, they
carried it back to the city and buried it in the king's

15 cemetery. And all Paris mourned the untimely end
of the brave young knight.

II.

After this, the greyhound went to live with the

young Sieur de Narsac. He followed the knight

wherever he went. He slept in his room and ate

^ from his hand. He seemed to be as much devoted

to his new master as he had been to the old.

One morning they went out for a stroll through
the city. The streets were crowded ; for it was a
holiday and all the fine people of Paris were enjoying

the sunlight and the fresh air. Dragon, as usual,
kept close to the heels of his master.

De Narsac walked down one street and up another,
meeting many of his friends, and now and then
stopping to talk a little while. Suddenly, as they i

The dog planted hluMlf In fVoat of hli m&itar.

were passing a corner, the dog leaped forward and
planted himself in front of his master. He growled
fiercely ; he crouched as though ready for a spring ;
his eyes were fixed upon some one in the crowd.

Then, before De Narsac could speak, he leaped lo
forward upon a young man whom he had singled

out. The man threw up his arm to save his throat ;
but the quickness of the attack and the weight of
the dog caused him to fall to the ground. There is
no telling what might have followed had not those

5 who were with him beaten the dog with their canes,
and driven him away.

De Narsac knew the man. His name was Richard
Macaire, and he belonged to the king's bodyguard.
Never before had the greyhound been known to

10 show anger towards any person. "What do you
mean by such conduct?" asked his master as they
walked homeward. Dragon's only answer was a
low growl ; but it was the best that he could give.
The affair had put a thought into De Narsac' s mind

15 which he could not dismiss.

Within less than a week the thing happened again.
This time Macaire was walking in the public garden.
De Narsac and the dog were some distance away.
But as soon as Dragon saw the man, he rushed at

20 him. It was all that the bystanders could do to keep
him from throttling Macaire. De Narsac hurried up
and called him away ; but the dog's anger was fear-
ful to see.

It was well known in Paris that Macaire and
25 young Aubrey had not been friends. It was remem-
bered that they had had more than one quarrel.
And now the people began to talk about the dog's

strange actions, and some went so far as to put this
and that together.

At last the matter reached the ears of the king.
He sent for De Narsac and had a long talk with
him. "Come back to-morrow and bring the dog 5
with you," he said. " We must find out more about
this strange affair."

The next day De Narsac, with Dragon at his heels,
was admitted into the king's audience room. The
king was seated in his great chair, and many knights 10
and men at arms were standing around him. Hardly
had De Narsac stepped inside when the dog leaped
quickly forward. He had seen Macaire, and had
singled him out from among all the rest. He sprang
upon him. He would have torn him in pieces if no 15
one had interfered.

There was now only one way to explain the
matter.

"This greyhound," said De Narsac, "is here to
denounce the Chevalier Macaire as the slayer of his 20
master, young Aubrey de Montdidier. He demands
that justice be done, and that the murderer be pun-
ished for his crime."

The Chevalier Macaire was pale and trembling.
He stammered a denial of his guilt, and declared 25
that the dog was a dangerous beast, and ought to be
put out of the way. " Shall a soldier in the service

of the king be accused by a dog ?" he cried. " Shall
he be condemned on such testimony as this ? I, too,
demand justice."

" Let the judgment of God decide ! " cried the

5 knights who were present.

And so the king declared that there should be a
trial by the judgment of God. For in those rude
times it was a very common thing to determine guilt
or innocence in this way — that is, by a combat

10 between the accuser and the accused. In such cases
it was believed that God would always aid the cause
of the innocent and bring about the defeat of the
guilty.

The combat was to take place that very afternoon

15 in the great common by the riverside. The king's
herald made a public announcement of it, naming the
dog as the accuser and the Chevalier Macaire as the
accused. A great crowd of people assembled to see
this strange trial by the judgment of God.

20 The king and his officers were there to make sure
that no injustice was done to either the man or the
dog. The man was allowed to defend himself with
a short stick ; the dog was given a barrel into which
he might run if too closely pressed.

25 At a signal the combat began. Macaire stood
upon his guard while the dog darted swiftly around
him, dodging the blows that were aimed at him, and

trying to get at his enemy's throat. The man seemed
to have lost all his courage. His breath came short
and quick. He was trembling from head to foot.

Suddenly the dog leaped upon him and threw hiin
to the ground. In his great terror he cried to the 5
king for mercy, and acknowledged his guilt.

" It is the judgment of God ! " cried the king.

The officers rushed in and dragged the dog away
before he could harm the guilty man ; and Macaire
was hurried off to the punishment which his crimes 10
deserved.

And this is the scene that was carved on the old
mantelpiece in the castle of Montargis — this strange
trial by the judgment of God. Is it not fitting that
a dog so faithful, devoted, and brave should have his 15
memory thus preserved in stone ? He is remembered
also in story and song. In France ballads have been
written about him ; and his strange history has been
dramatized in both French and English.

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.

How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood,

When fond recollection presents them to. view !
The orchard, the meadow, the deep, tangled wildwood.

And every loved spot that my infancy knew.
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it ;

The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell ;
The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it,

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well —
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket.

The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.

That moss-covered bucket I hail as a treasure ;

For often at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ;

Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness it rose from the well —

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,

As poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips !
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,

Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from thy loved situation,

The tear of regret will oftentimes swell,
As fancy returns to my father's plantation.

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well —
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket.

The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well.

— Samuel Woodworth.

-«>o>0<oo-

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands ;

The smith a mighty man is he.
With large and sinewy hands ;

And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp and black and long ;

His face is like the tan ;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night.
You can hear his bellows blow ;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge
With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell.
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door ;
They love to see the flaming forge.

And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church.

And sits among his boys ;
He hears the parson pray and preach ;

He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,

Singing in Paradise !
He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies ;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes ;
Each morning sees some task begun,

Each evening sees its close ;
Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught !

Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought ;

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

— Henry W, LongfdloiD.

So nigh is grandeur to our dust

So near is God to man.
When Duty whispers low, " Thou must,"

The youth replies, " I can.''

— Ralph Waldo Emerson.

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ThsTlllaKB Blukamitb,

THE CHOICE OF HERCULES.

One morning when Hercules was a fair-faced lad
of twelve years, he was sent out to do an errand
which he disliked very much. As he walked slowly
along the road, his heart was full of bitter thoughts ;
and he murmured because others no better than him- ^
self were living in ease and pleasure, while for him
there was little but labor and pain. Thinking upon
these things, he came after a while to a place where
two roads met; and he stopped, not quite certain
which one to take. lo

The road on his right was hilly and rough, and
there was no beauty in it or about it; but he saw
that it led straight toward the blue mountains in
the far distance. The road on his left was broad
and smooth, with shade trees on either side, where is
sang thousands of beautiful birds ; and it went wind-
ing in and out, through groves and green meadows,
where bloomed countless flowers ; but it ended in fog
and mist long before reaching the wonderful moun-
tains of blue. 20

While the lad stood in doubt as to which way he
should go, he saw two ladies coming toward him,
each by a different road. The one who came down
the flowery way reached him first, and Hercules saw
that she was beautiful as a summer day. Her cheeks 25

were red, her eyes sparkled, her voice was like the
music of morning.

" noble youth,'* she said, " this is the road which
you should choose. It will lead you into pleasant

5 ways where there is neither toil, nor hard study, nor
drudgery of any kind. Your ears shall always be
delighted with sweet sounds, and your eyes with
things beautiful and gay ; and you need do nothing
but play and enjoy the hours as they pass."

10 By this time the other fair woman had drawn
near, and she now spoke to the lad.

"If you take my road," said she, "you will find
that it is rocky and rough, and that it climbs many
a hill and descends into many a valley and quag-

16 mire. The views which you will sometimes get
from the hilltops are grand and glorious, while the
deep valleys are dark and the uphill ways are toil-
some ; but the road leads to the blue mountains of
endless fame, of which you can see faint glimpses,

20 far away. They can not be reached without labor ;
for, in fact, there is nothing worth having that must
not be won through toil. If you would have fruits
and flowers, you must plant and care for them ; if
you would gain the love of your fellow-men, you

25 must love them and suffer for them ; if you would be
a man, you must make yourself strong by the doing
of manly deeds."

Then the boy saw that this lady, although her face
seemed at first very plain, was as beautifxil as the
dawn, or as the flowery fields after a summer rain.

" What is your name ? " he asked.

" If Ton would ba a man, run most make joDiaelf Btiinig,"

"Some call me Labor," she answered, "but others
know me as Truth."

"And what is your name?" he asked, turning to
the first lady.

" Some call me Pleasure," said she with a smile ;
"but I choose to be known as the Joyous One."

" And what can you promise me at the end if I go
with you ? "

" I promise nothing at the end. What I give, I
give at the beginning."

"Labor," said Hercules, "I will follow your road.
I want to be strong and manly and worthy of the
5 love of my fellows. And whether I shall ever reach
the blue mountains or not, I want to have the reward
of knowing that my journey has not been without
some worthy aim."

'OOgQ^<x^

CHRISTMAS AT THE CRATCHITS'.

Then up rose Mrs. Cratchit, dressed out but poorly
10 in a twice-turned gown, but brave in ribbons, which
are cheap and make a goodly show for sixpence ;
and she laid the cloth, assisted by Belinda Cratchit,
second of her daughters, also brave in ribbons;
while Master Cratchit plunged a fork into the sauce-
15 pan of potatoes, and getting the corner of his mon-
strous shirt collar (Bob's private property, conferred
upon his son and heir in honor of the day) into his
mouth, rejoiced to find himself so gallantly attired,
and yearned to show his linen in the fashionable
20 Parks.

And now two smaller Cratchits, boy and girl,
came tearing in, screaming that outside the baker's
they had smelt the goose, and known it for their

own ; and basking in luxurious thoughts of sage and
onion, these young Cratchits danced about the table
and exalted Master Peter Cratchit to the skies, while
he (not proud, although his collar nearly choked
him) blew the fire, until the slow potatoes bubbling i.
up knocked loudly at the saucepan lid to be let out
and peeled.

" What has ever got your precious father then ? "
said Mrs. Cratchit. " And your brother. Tiny Tim !
And Martha wasn't as late last Christmas Day, by ic
half an hour ! "

" Here's Martha, mother ! " said a girl, appearing
as she spoke.

"Here's Martha, mother!'^ cried the two young
Cratchits. " Hurrah ! There's such a goose, i5
Martha ! "

" Why, bless your heart alive, my dear, how late
you are ! '* said Mrs. Cratchit, kissing her a dozen
times, and taking off her shawl and bonnet for her
with officious zeal. 2C

'^We'd a deal of work to finish up last night,"
replied the girl, " and had to clear away this morn-
ing, mother ! "

" Well ! never mind so long as you are come,"
said Mrs. Cratchit. "Sit ye down before the fire,2«
my dear, and have a warm. Lord bless ye ! "

" No, no ! There's father coming," cried the two

Sob Ontohlt and T1d7 lim.

young Cratchits, who were everywhere at once.
" Hide, Martha, hide ! "

So Martha hid herself, and in came little Bob, the
father, with at least three feet of comforter exclusive
of the fringe hanging down before him; and his 5
threadbare clothes darned up and brushed, to look
seasonable ; and Tiny Tim upon his shoulder. Alas
for Tiny Tim, he bore a little crutch, and had his
limbs supported by an iron frame !

" Why, where's our Martha ? " cried Bob Cratchit, 10
looking round.

"Not coming," said Mrs. Cratchit.

"Not coming!" said Bob, with a sudden declen-
sion in his high spirits ; for he had been Tim's blood
horse all the way from church, and had Come home 15
rampant. ".Not coming upon Christmas Day ! ■ '

Martha did not like to see him disappointed, if it
were only in joke; so she came out prematurely
from behind the closet door, and ran, into his arms,
while the two young Cratcliits hustled Tiny Tim, 20
and bore him off into the wa^shhouse that' he might
hear the pudding singing in the Qbpper.

"And how did little Tim , behave ?;" asked Mrs.
Cratchit, when she had rallied Bob on his credulity,
and Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart's 25
content.

" As good as gold," said Bob, " and better. Some-

how he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much,
and thinks the strangest things you ever heard. He
told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw
him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it

5 might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christ-
mas Day, who made lame beggars walk and blind
men see."

Bob's voice was tremulous when he told them this,
and trembled more when he said that Tiny Tim was

10 growing strong and hearty.

His active little crutch was heard upon the floor,
and back came Tiny Tim before another word was
spoken, escorted by his brother and sister to his
stool beside the fire ; and while Bob, turning up

15 his cuffs, — as if, poor fellow, they were capable of
being made more shabby, — compounded some hot
mixture in a jug with gin and lemons, and stirred it
round and round and put it on the hob to simmer ;
Master Peter and the two ubiquitous young Cratchits

20 went to fetch the goose, with which they soon re-
turned in high procession.

Such a bustle ensued that you might have thought
a goose the rarest of all birds ; a feathered phenome-
non, to which a black swan was a matter of course

25 — and in truth it was something very like it in that
house. Mrs. Cratchit made the gravy (ready before-
hand in a little saucepan) hissing hot ; Master Peter

mashed the potatoes with incredible vigor; Miss
Belinda sweetened up the apple sauce; Martha
dusted the hot plates; Bob took Tiny Tim beside
him in a tiny corner at the table; the two young
Cratchits set chairs for everybody, not forgetting 5
themselves, and mounting guard upon their posts,
crammed spoons into their mouths, lest they should
shriek for goose before their turn came to be helped.
At last the dishes were set on, and grace was said.
It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. 10
Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving knife,
prepared to plunge it in the breast; but when she
did, and when the long-expected gush of stuffing
issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round
the board, and even Tiny Tim, excited by the two 15
young Cratchits, beat on the table with the handle
of his knife, and feebly cried Hurrah !

There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn't
believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its
tenderness and flavor, size and cheapness, were the 20
themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple
sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner
for the whole family ; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said
with great delight (surveying one small atom of a
bone upon the dish), they hadn't ate it all at last ! 25
Yet every one had had enough, and the youngest
Cratchits, in particular, were steeped in sage and

onion to the eyebrows! But now the plates bemg
changed by Miss Belinda, Mrs. Cratchit left the room
alone — too nervous to bear witnesses — to take the
puddmg up and bring it in.

5 Suppose it should not be done enough ! Suppose
it should break in turning out ! Suppose somebody
should have got over the w^all of the backyard and
stolen it, while they were merry with the goose — a
supposition at which the two young Cratchits became

10 livid. All sorts of horrors were supposed.

Hallo ! A great deal of steam ! The pudding was
out of the copper. A smell like a washing day!
That was the cloth. A smell like an eating house
and a pastry cook's next door to each other, with a

15 laundress's next door to that ! That was the pud-
ding ! In half a minute Mrs. Cratchit entered —
flushed, but smiling proudly — with the pudding like
a speckled cannon ball, so hard and firm, smoking
hot, and bedight with Christmas holly stuck into

20 the top.

Oh, a wonderful pudding ! Bob Cratchit said, and
calmly too, that he regarded it as the greatest success
achieved by Mrs. Cratchit since their marriage. Mrs.
Cratchit said that now the weight was off her mind,

26 she would confess she had her doubts about the quan-
tity of flour. Everybody had something to say about
it, but nobody said or thought it was at all a small

pudding for a large family. It would have been flat
heresy to do so. Any Cratchit would have blushed
to hint at such a thing.

At last the dinner was all done, the cloth was
cleared, the hearth swept, and the fire made up. 5
The compound in the jug being tasted, and consid-
ered perfect, apples and oranges were put upon the
table, and a shovel full of chestnuts on the fire.
Then all the Cratchit family drew round the hearth,
in what Bob Cratchit called a circle, meanmg half a 10
one ; and at Bob Cratchit's elbow stood the family
display of glass, — two tumblers and a custard cup
without a handle.

These held the hot stuff from the jug, however, as
well as golden goblets would have done ; and Bob 15
served it out with beaming looks, while the chest-
nuts on the fire sputtered and cracked noisily. Then
Bob proposed: "A Merry Christmas to us all, my
dears. God bless us ! "

Which all the family reechoed. 20

" God bless us every one ! " said Tiny Tim, the
last of all.

He sat very close to his father's side, upon his little
stool. Bob held his withered little hand in his, as
if he loved the child, and wished to keep him by his 25
side, and dreaded that he might be taken from him.
— From "w4 Christmas Carol '' by Charles Dickens,

ON THE MOUNTAIN.

And seeing the multitudes, he went up into a moun-
tain : and when he was set, his disciples came unto
him ; and he opened his mouth and taught them,
saying : Blessed are the poor in spirit ; for theirs is

5 the kingdom of heaven. - Blessed are they that
mourn; for they shall be comforted. Blessed are
the meek; for they shall inherit the earth.

Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after
righteousness; for they shall be filled. Blessed are

10 the merciful ; for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed
are the pure in heart ; for they shall see God.

Blessed are the peacemakers; for they shall be
called the children of God. Blessed are they which
are persecuted for righteousness' sake; for theirs is

15 the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are ye when men shall revile you, and
persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil
against you falsely, for my sake. Rejoice and
be exceeding glad ; for great is your reward in

20 heaven.

Ye have heard that it hath been said by them of
old time. Thou shalt not forswear thyself, but shalt
perform unto the Lord thine oaths : but I say unto
you. Swear not at all ; neither by heaven ; for it is

25 God's throne : nor by the earth ; for it is his foot-

stool : neither by Jerusalem ; for it is the city of the
great King.

Neither shalt thou swear by thy head, because thou
canst not make one hair white or black. But let
your communication be, Yea, yea ; Nay, nay : for 5
whatsoever is more than these cometh of evil.

Ye have heard that it hath been said. An eye for
an eye, and a tooth for a tooth : but I say unto you,
That ye resist not evil ; but whosoever shall smite
thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also. 10

And if any man will sue thee at law, and take
away thy coat, let him have thy cloak also. And
whosoever shall compel thee to go a mUe, go with
him twain. Give to him that asketh thee, and from
him that would borrow of thee turn not thou away, is

Ye have heard that it hath been said. Thou shalt
love thy neighbor and hate thine enemy. But I say
unto you. Love your enemies, bless them that curse
you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for
them which despitef ully use you, and persecute you ; 20
that ye may be the children of your Father which is
in heaven : for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil
and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on
the unjust.

For if ye love them that love you, what reward 25
have ye ? Do not even the publicans the same ? And
if ye salute your brethren only, what do ye more

than others ? Do not even the publicans so ? Be ye,
therefore, perfect, even as your Father which is in
heaven is perfect. ...

Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye

5 shall find ; knock, and it shall be opened unto you ;
for every one that asketh, receiveth; and he that
seeketh, findeth ; and to him that knocketh, it shall
be opened. Or what man is there of you, whom if
his son ask bread, will he give him a stone ? Or if

10 he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent ?

If ye then, being evil know how to give good gifts
unto your children, how much more shall your Father
which is in heaven give good things to them that
ask him ? Therefore all things whatsoever ye would

15 that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.

Whosoever heareth these sayings of mine, and

doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which

built his house upon a rock : and the rain descended,

and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat

20 upon that house ; and it fell not ; for it was founded
upon a rock. And every one that heareth these say-
ings of mine, and doeth them not, shall be likened
unto a foolish man, which built his house upon the
sand : and the rain descended, and the floods came,

25 and the winds blew, and beat upon that house ; and
it fell : and great was the fall of it.

— From the Gospel according to St, Matthew.

BETSEY HULL'S WEDDING.

In the early days of New England all the money
that was used was brought from Europe. Coins of
gold and silver from England were the most plenti-
ful ; but now and then one might see a doubloon, or
some piece of smaller value, that had been made in s
Spain or Portugal. As for paper money, or bank
bills, nobody had ever heard of them.

Money was so scarce that people were often obliged
to barter instead of buying and selling. That is, if
a lady wanted a yard of dress goods, she would per- lo
haps exchange a basket of fruit or some vegetables
for it ; if a farmer wanted a pair of shoes, he might
give the skin of an ox for it ; if he needed nails, he
might buy them with potatoes. In many places
there was not money enough of any kind to pay the 15
salaries of the ministers ; and so, instead of gold or
silver, they were obliged to take fish and corn and
wood and anything else that the people could spare.

As the people became more numerous, and there
was more trade among them, the want of money 20
caused much inconvenience. At last, the General
Court of the colony passed a law providing for the
coinage of small pieces of silver — shillings, six-
pences, and threepences. They also appointed Cap-
tain John Hull to be mint-master for the colony, and 25

gave him the exclusive right to make this money.
It was agreed that for every twenty shillings coined
by him, he was to keep one shilling to pay him for
his work.

5 And now, all the old silver in the colony was
hunted up and carried to Captain Hull's miut. Bat-
tered silver cans and tankards, silver huckles, broken
spoons, old sword hilts, and many other such curious
old articles were doubtless thrown into the melting

10 pot together. But by far the greater part of the
silver consisted of bullion from the mines of South
America, which the
English buccaneers
had taken from the

15 Spaniards and brought
to Massachusetts. All
this old and new sil-
ver was melted down Pine-tree suniag.
and coined ; and the result was an immense amount

so of bright shillings, sixpences, and threepences. Each
had the date, 1652, on one side, and the figure of a
pine tree on the other; hence, the shillings were
called pine-tree shillings.

When the members of the General Court saw what

26 an immense number of coins had been made, and re-
membered that one shilling in every twenty was to
go into the pockets of Captain John Hull, they began

to think that the mint-master was having the best of
the bargain. They offered him a large amount, if he
would but give up his claim to that twentieth shilling.
But the Captain declared that he was well satisfied
to let things stand as they were. And so he might 5
be, for iijL a few years his money bags and his strong
box were all overflowing with pine-tree shillings.

Now, the rich mint-master had a daughter whose
name I do not know, but whom I will call Betsey.
This daughter was a fine, hearty damsel, by no 10
means so slender as many young ladies of our own
days. She had been fed on pumpkin pies, doughnuts,
Indian puddings, and other Puritan dainties, and so
had grown up to be as round and plump as any lass
in the colony. With this round, rosy Miss Betsey, a 15
worthy young man, Samuel Sewell by name, fell
in love ; and as he was diligent in business, and a
member of the church, the mint-master did not
object to his taking her as his wife. "Oh, yes,
you may have her," he said in his rough way ; " but 20
you will find her a heavy enough burden."

On the wedding day we may suppose that honest
John Hull dressed himself in a plum-colored coat,
all the buttons of which we're made of pine-tree
shillings. The buttons of his waistcoat were six- 25
pences, and the knees of his small clothes were
buttoned with silver threepences. Thus attired, he

sat with dignity in the huge armchair which had

been brought from old England expressly for his

comfort. On the other side of the room sat Miss

Betsey. She was blushing with all her might, and

•5 looked like a full-blown peony or a great red apple.

There, too, was the bridegroom, dressed in a fine

purple coat and gold-laced waistcoat. His hair was

cropped close to his head, because Governor Endicott

had forbidden any man to wear it below the ears.

10 But he was a very personable young man ; and so

thought the bridesmaids and Miss Betsey herself.

When the marriage ceremony was over, Captain
Hull whispered a word to two of his men servants,
who immediately went out, and soon returned lug-
is ging in a large pair of scales. They were such a
pair as wholesale merchants use for weighing bulky
commodities ; and quite a bulky commodity was now
to be weighed in them.

"Daughter Betsey," said the mint-master, "get
20 into one side of these scales." Miss Betsey — or
Mrs. Sewell, as we must now call her — did as she
was bid, like a dutiful child, without any question
of why and wherefore. But what her father could
mean, unless to make her husband pay for her by
26 the pound (in which case she would have been a
dear bargain), she had not the least idea.

"Now," said honest John Hull to the servants,

><.'

" bring that box hither." The box to which, the
mint-master pointed was a huge, square, ironbotind,
oaken chest; it was big enough, my childrien, for
three or four of you to play at hide and seek in.
The servants tugged with might and main, but 5
could not lift this enormous receptacle, and were
finally obliged to drag it across the floor. Captain
Hull then took a key from his girdle, unlocked the
chest, and lifted its ponderous lid.

Behold ! it was full to the brim of bright . pine- 10
tree shillings fresh from the mint; and Samuel
Sewell began to think that his father-in-law had
got possession of all the money in the Massachusetts
treasury. But it was only the mint-master's honest
share of the coinage. 15

Then the servants, at Captain Hull's command,
heaped double handfuls of shillings into one side of
the scales, while Betsey remained in the other.
Jingle, jingle went the shillings, as handful after
handful was thrown in, till, plump and ponderous 20
as she was, they fairly weighed the young lady from
the floor.

" There, son Sewell ! " cried the honest mint-mas-
ter, " take these shillings for my daughter's portion.
It is not every wife that is worth her weight in 25
silver."
— Adapted from " Grandfather's Chair ^' by Nathaniel Hawthorne.

ULYSSES AND THE CYCLOPS.
Among all the great poems that have ever been
written none are grander or more famous than the
"Iliad" and the "Odyssey," of the old Greek poet
Homer. They were composed and re-
;;ited nearly three thousand years 5
ago, and yet nothing that has
been written in later times
has so charmed and delighted
mankind. In the " Iliad " the
poet tells how the Greeks 10
made war upon Troy, and
' how they did brave deeds
;iround the walla of that famed
_'ity, and faltered not till they
• liad won the stubborn fight. ■ In the 15
' he tells how the Greek hero
Ulysses or Odysseus, when the war was ended, set
sail for his distant home in Ithaca ; how he was
driven from his course by the wind and waves ; and
how lie was carried against his will through unknown -jo
seas and to strange, mysterious shores where no man
had been before.

One of the most famous passages in the " Odyssey "
is that in which Ulysses relates the story of his meet-
ing with the one-eyed giant, Polyphemus. He tells 3.1
it in this manner :

When we had come to the land, we saw a cave
not far from the sea. It was a lofty cave roofed
over with laurels, and in it large herds of sheep
and goats were used to rest. About it a high outer

5 court was built with stones set deep in the ground,
and with tall pines and oaks crowned with green
leaves. In it was wont to sleep a man of monstrous
size who shepherded his flocks alone and had no deal^
ings with others, but dwelt apart in lawlessness of

10 mind. Indeed, he was a monstrous thing, most
strangely shaped ; and he was unlike any man that
lives by bread, but more like the wooded top of some
towering hill that stands out apart and alone from
others.

15 Then I bade the rest of my well-loved company
stay close by the ship and guard it ; but I chose out
twelve of my bravest men and sallied forth. We
bore with us a bag of corn and a great skin filled
with dark sweet wine ; for in my lordly heart I had

20 a foreboding that we should meet a man, a strange,
strong man who had little reason and cared nothing
for the right.

Soon we came to the cave, but he was not within ;
he was shepherding his fat flocks in the pastures.

25 So we went into the cave and looked around. There
we saw many folds filled with lambs and kids. Each
kind was penned by itself; in one fold were the

spring lambs, in one were the summer lambs, and in
one were the younglings of the flock. On one side of
the cave were baskets well laden with cheeses ; and
the milk pails and the bowls and the well-wrought
vessels into which he milked were filled with whey. [

lame back ditving Mb floolu.

Then my men begged me to take the cheeses and
return, and afterwards to make haste and drive off
the kids and lambs to the swift ship and sail with-
out delay over the salt waves. Far better would it
have been had I done as they wished; but I bade-
them wait and see the giant himself, for perhaps he

would give me gifts as a stranger's due. Then we
kindled a fire and made a burnt-offering ; and we ate
some of the cheeses, and sat waiting for him till he
came back driving his flocks. In his arms he carried

5 a huge load of dry wood to be used in cooking sup-
per. This he threw down with a great noise inside
the cave, and we in fear hid ourselves in the dark
comers behind the rocks.

As for the giant, he drove into the wide cavern all

10 those of his flock that he was wont to milk ; but the
males, both of the sheep and of the goats, he left
outside in the high-walled yard. Then he lifted a
huge door stone and set it in the mouth of the
cave ; it was a stone so weighty that two-and-twenty

15 good, four-wheeled wagons could scarce have borne
it off the groimd. Then he sat down and milked
the ewes and the bleating goats, each in its turn,
and beneath each ewe he placed her young. After
that he curdled half of the white milk and stored it

20 in wicker baskets ; and the other half he let stand
in pails that he might have it for his supper.

Now, when he had done all his work busily, he
kindled the fire, and as its light shone into all parts
of the cave, he saw us. " Strangers, who are you ? "

25 he cried. "Whence sail you over the wet ways?
Are you on some trading voyage, or do you rove as
sea robbers over the briny deep ? "

Such were his words, and so monstrous was he
and so deep was his voice that our hearts were
broken within us for terror. But, for all that, I
stood up and answered him, saying:

" Lo, we are Greeks, driven by all manner of winds 5
over the great gulf of the sea. We seek our homes,
but have lost our way and know not where we go.
Now we have landed on this shore, and we come to
thy knees, thinking perhaps that thou wilt give us a
stranger's gift, or make any present, as is the due of lo
strangers. Think upon thy duty to the gods ; for
we are thy suppliants. Have regard to Jupiter, the
god of the sojoiKuer and the friend of the stranger.''

This I said, and then the giant answered me out
of his pitiless heart : " Thou art indeed a foolish i5
fellow and a stranger in this land, to think of bid-
ding me fear the gods. We Cyclops care nothing
for Jupiter, nor for any other of the gods ; for we
are better men than they. The fear of them will
never cause me to spare either thee or thy company, 20
unless I choose to do so."

Then the giant sprang up and caught two of my
companions, and dashed them to the ground so hard
that they died before my eyes; and the earth was
wet with their blood. Then he cut them into pieces, 25
and made ready his evening meal. So he ate, as a
lion of the mountains ; and we wept and raised our

hands to Jupiter, and knew not what to do. And
after the Cyclops had filled himself, he lay down
among his sheep.

Then I considered in my great heart whether I

5 should not draw my sharp sword, and stab him in
the breast. But upon second thought, T held back.
For I knew that we would not be able to roll away
with our hands the heavy stone which the giant liad
set against the door, and we would then have per-

10 ished in the cave. So, all night long, we crouched
trembling in the darkness, and waited the coming
of the day.

Now, when the rosy-fingered Dawn shone forth,
the Cyclops arose and kindled the fire. Then he

15 milked his goodly flock, and beneath each ewe he set
her lamb. When he had done all his work busily,
he seized two others of my men, and made ready his
morning meal. And after the meal, he moved away
the great door stone, and drove his fat flocks forth

20 from the cave ; and when the last sheep had gone
out, he set the stone in its place again, as one might
set the lid of a quiver. Then, with a loud whoop,
he turned his flocks toward the hills ; but I was left
shut up in the cave, and thinking what we should

25 do to avenge ourselves.

And at last this plan seemed to me the best. Not
far from the sheepfold there lay a great club of the

Cyclops, a club of olive wood, yet green, which he
had cut to carry with him when it should be fully
seasoned. Now when we looked at this stick, it
seemed to us as large as the mast of a black ship
of twenty oars, a wide merchant vessel that sails the
vast sea. I stood by it, and cut off from it a piece
some six feet in length, and set it by my men, and
bade them trim it down and make it smooth ; and
while they did this, I stood by and sharpened it to
a point. Then I took it and hardened it in the ra
bright fire ; and after that, I laid it away and hid it.
And I bade my men cast lots to determine which of
them should help me, when the time came, to lift
the sharp and heavy stick and turn it about in the
Cyclops' eye. And the lots fell upon those whom 1 1^
would have chosen, and I appointed myself to be the
fifth among them.

II.

In the evening the Cyclops came home, bringing
his well-fleeced flocks ; and soon he drove the beasts,
each and all, into the cave, and left not one outside 20
in the high-walled yard. Then he lifted the huge
door stone, and set it in the mouth of the cave ; and
after that he milked the ewes and the bleating goats,
all in order, and beneath each ewe he placed her
young. 25

Now when he had done all his work busily, he
seized two others of my men, and made ready his
supper. Then I stood before the Cyclops and spoke
to him, holding in my hands a bowl of dark wine :
" Cyclops, take this wine and drink it after thy feast,
that thou mayest know what kind of wine it was
that our good ship carried. For, indeed, I was
bringing it to thee as a drink offering, if haply thou
wouldst pity us and send us on our way home ; but
10 thy mad rage seems to have no bounds."

So I spoke, and he took the cup and drank the
wine ; and so great was his delight that he asked me
for yet a second draught.

" Kindly give me more, and- tell me thy name,
15 so that I may give thee a stranger's gift and make
thee glad."

Thus he spoke, and again I handed him the dark

wine. Three times did I hand it to him, and three

times did he drink it to the dregs. But when the

20 wine began to confuse his wits, then I spoke to him

with soft words :

"O Cyclops, thou didst ask for my renowned

name, and now I will tell it to thee ; but do thou

grant me a stranger's gift, as thou hast promised.

25 My name is No-man ; my father and my mother

and all my companions call me No-man."

Thus I spoke, and he answered me out of his

pitiless heart: "I will eat thee, No-man, after I
have eaten all thy fellows : that shall be thy gift."

Then he sank down upon the ground with his
face upturned; and there he lay with his great
neck bent round ; and sleep, that conquers all men,
overcame him. Then I thrust that stake under
the burning coals until the sharpened end of it
grew hot ; and I spoke words of comfort to my men
lest they should hang back with fear. But when
the bar of olive wood began to glow and was about ^
to catch fire, even then I came nigh and drew it
from the coals, and my men stood around me, and
some god filled our hearts with courage.

The men seized the bar of olive wood and thrust
it into the Cyclops' eye, while I from my place :■
aloft turned it around. As when a man bores a
ship's beam with a drill while his fellows below
spin it with a strap, which they hold at either end,
and the auger runs round continually : even so did
we seize the fiery-pointed brand and whirl it round ^
in his eye. And the flames singed his eyelids and
brows all about, as the ball of the eye was burned
away. And the Cyclops raised a great and terrible
cry that made the rocks around us ring, and we
fled away in fear, while he plucked the brand from 25
his bleeding eye.

Then, maddened with pain, he cast the bar from

him, and called with a loud voice to the Cyclopes,
his neighbors, who dwelt near him in the caves
along the cliffs. And they heard his cry, and
flocked together from every side, and standing out-
• side, at the door of the cave, asked him what was
the matter:

^^What troubles thee, Polyphemus, that thou
criest thus in the night, and wilt not let us sleep ? "

The strong Cyclops whom they thus called Poly-

10 phemus, answered them from the cave : " My friends.

No-man is killing me by guile, and not by force!"

And they spoke winged words to him : " If no
man is mistreating thee in thy lonely cave, then
it must be some sickness, sent by Jupiter, that is
15 giving thee pain. Pray to thy father, great Nep-
tune, and perhaps he will cure thee.''

And when they had said this they went away;
and my heart within me laughed to see how my
name and cunning counsel had deceived them. But
20 the Cyclops, groaning with pain, groped with his
hands, and lifted the stone from the door of the
cave. Then he sat in the doorway, with arms out-
stretched, to lay hold of any one that might try
to go out with the sheep; for he thought that I
25 would be thus foolish. But I began to think of
all kinds of plans by which we might escape ; and
this was the plan which seemed to me the best :

The rams of the flock were thick-fleeced, beauti-
ful, and large ; and their wool was dark as the
violet. These I quietly lashed together with the
strong withes which the Cyclops had laid in heaps
to sleep upon. I tied them together in threes : the
middle one of the three was to carry a man; but
the sheep on either side went only as a shield to
keep him from discovery. Thus, every three sheep
carried their man. As for me, I laid hold of a
young ram, the best and strongest of all the flock ; ^■-'
and I clung beneath him, face upward, grasping the
wondrous fleece.

As soon as the early Dawn shone forth, the rams
of the flock hastened out to the pasture, but the
ewes bleated about the pens and waited to be ^•^
milked. As the rams passed through the doorway,
their master, sore stricken with pain, felt along
their backs, and guessed not in his folly that my
men were bound beneath their wooly breasts. Last
of all, came the young ram cumbered with his heavy 20
fleece, and the weight of me and my cunning. The
strong Cyclops laid his hands on him and spoke to
him :

" Dear ram," he said, " pray tell me why you
are the last of all to go forth from the cave. You 25
are not wont to lag behind. Hitherto you have
always been the first to pluck the tender blossoms

le pasture, and you have been the first to go
to the fold at evening. But now you are the
last. Can it be that you are sorrowing for
master's eye which a wicked man blinded when
ad overcome me with wine ?
\h, if you could feel as I — if you could speak
tell me where he is hiding to shun my wrath
len I ivould smite him, and my heart would be
ened of the sorrows that he has brought upon

len he sent the ram from him ; and when we
gone a little way from the cave I loosed myself
under the ram, and then set my fellows free,
tly we drove the flock before us, and often
id to look about, till at
we came to the ship,
ir companions greeted
■ith glad hearts, — us
had fled from death ;
they were about to be-
1 the others with tears
1 I forbade. I told
1 to make haste and take on board the well-fleeced
3, and then sail away from that imfriendly shore.
hey did as they were bidden, and when all was
Y, they sat upon the benches, each man in his
!, and smote the gray sea water with their oars.

in ths Time of Homat.

>> -

But when we had not gone so far but that a man'^
shout could be heard, I called to the Cyclops and_
taunted him :

" Cyclops, you will not eat us by main might in—
your hollow cave ! Your evil deeds, cruel monster, ^
were sure to find you out ; for you shamelessly ate th
guests that were within your gates, and now Jupite
and the other gods have requited you as you deserved.

Thus I spoke, and so great became his anger thati:
he broke off the peak of a great hill and threw it at:
us, and it fell in front of the dark-prowed ship. AndB.
the sea rose in waves from the fall of the rock, anA^
drove the ship quickly back to the shore. Then EI
caught up a long pole in my hands, and thrust th^
ship from off the land; and with a motion of th^
head, I bade them dash in with their oars, so that
we might escape from our evil plight. So they bent
to their oars and rowed on.

Such is the story which Ulysses told of his adven-
ture with the giant Cyclops. Many and strange iK)
were the other adventures through which he passed
before he reached his distant home ; and all are re-
lated in that wonderful poem, the " Odyssey." This
poem has been often translated into the English lan-
guage. Some of the translations are in the form of 25
poetry, and of these the best are the versions by

George Chapman, by Alexander Pope, and by our
American poet William Cullen Bryant. The best
prose translation is that by Butcher and Lang — and
this I have followed quite closely in the story which
you have just read.

THE BROOK.

I come from haunts of coot and hern :

I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern,

To bicker down the valley ;

By thirty hills I hurry down.
Or slip between the ridgo.-;
By twenty thorps, a little town.
And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip's farm I flow

To join the brimming river ;
For men may come and men
may go,

But I go on forever.

I chatter over stony ways
In little sharps and trebles;

I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles ;

With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,

And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow ;

I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river ;

For men may come, and men may go,
But I go on forever.

I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing.

And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flake.

Upon me as I travel.
With many a silvery waterbreak

Above the golden gravel,

And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river ;

For men may come, and men may go.
But I go on forever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
I slide by hazel covers ;

I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers ;

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows ;

I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows ;

I mnrmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses ;

I linger by my shingly bars,
I loiter round my cresses ;

And out again I curve and flow

To join the brimming river ;
For men may come, and men may go,

But I go on forever.

— Alfred Tennyson.
^;*;o«

THE LADY OF SHALOTT.

PART I.

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky :
And through the fields the road runs by

To many-towered Camelot ;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,

The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver.
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs forever
By the island in the river

Flowing down to Camelot ;
Four gray walls, and four gray towers.
Overlook a space of flowers.
And the silent isle imbowers

The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow-veiled^
Slide the heavy barges, trailed
By slow horses ; and unbailed
The shallop flitteth silken-sailed.

Skimming down to Camelot :
But who hath seen her wave her hand ?
Or at the casement seen her stand ?
Or is she known in all the land,

The Lady of Shalott ?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley.
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,

Down to towered Camelot :
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy.
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy

Lady of Shalott."

PART II.

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colors gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay

To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be.
And so she weaveth steadily.

And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear,
That hangs before her all the year.
Shadows of the world appear.
Thdre she sees the highway near

Winding down to Camelot :
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls

Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad.
An abbot on an ambling pad.
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad
Or long-haired page in crimson clad,

Goes by to towered Camelot ;
And sometimes through the mirror blue.
The knights come riding two and two : —
She hath no loyal knight and true.

The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirrored magic sights.
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights.
And music, went to Camelot ;

Or, when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
" I am half-sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

PART III.

A bowshot from her bower eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling through the leaves.
And flamed upon the brazen greaves

Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight forever kneeled
To a lady in his shield
That sparkled on the yellow field.

Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glittered free.
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily

As he rode down to Camelot :
And from his blazoned baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung.

Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewelled shone the saddle leather,

The helmet and the helmet feather
Burned like one burning flame together,

As he rode down to Camelot.
As often through the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,

Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed ;
On burnished hooves his war horse trode ;
From underneath his helmet flowed
His coal-black curls as on he rode,

As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror ;
" Tirra lirra," by the river

Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water lily bloom.
She saw the helmet and the plume,

She looked down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide ;
The mirror cracked from side to side ;
" The curse is come upon me," cried

The Lady of Shalott.

PART IV.

In the stormy east wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining

Over towered Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote,

The Lady of Shalott,

And down the river's dim expanse —
Like some bold seer in a trance.
Seeing all his own mischance —
With a glassy countenance

Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay ;
The broad stream bore her far away.

The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right —
The leaves upon her falling light —
Through the noises of the night

She floated down to Camelot :
And as the boat-head wound along

The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy.
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly.
Till her blood was frozen slowly.
And her eyes were darkened wholly,

Turned to towered Camelot ; •
For ere she reached upon the tide
The first house by the waterside.
Singing in her song she died,

The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony.
By garden wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
A corse between the houses high.

Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came.
Knight and burgher, lord and dame.
And round the prow they read her name,

The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this ? and what is here ?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer ;

And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot ;

But Lancelot mused a little space ;

He said, " She has a lovely face ;

God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."

This poem, by Alfred Tennyson, was written in 1832. Considered
as a picture, or as a series of pictures, its beauty is unsurpassed. The
story which is here so briefly told is founded upon a touching legend
connected with the romance of King Arthur and his Knights of the
Round Table. Tennyson afterwards (in 1859) expanded it into the
Idyll called " Elaine," wherein he followed more closely the original
aarrative as related by Sir Thomas Malory.

Sir Lancelot was the strongest and bravest of the Knights of the
Round Table, and for love of him Elaine, "the fair maid of Astolat,"
pined away and died. But before her death she called her brother,
ind having dictated a letter which he was to write, she spoke thus:

"* While my body is whole, let this letter be put into my right
hand, and my hand bound fast with the letter until I be cold, and let
me be put in a fair bed with all my richest clothes that I have about
me, and so let my bed and all my rich clothes be laid with me in a
chariot to the next place whereas the Thames is, and there let me be
put in a barge, and but one man with me, such as ye trust to steer
me thither, and that my barge be covered with black samite over and
over.* ... So when she was dead, the corpse and the bed and all
was led the next way unto the Thames, and there all were put in a
barge on the Thames, and so the man steered the barge to West-
minster, and there he rowed a great while to and fro, or any man
espied." * At length the King and his Knights, coming down to the
water side, and seeing the' boat and the fair maid of Astolat, they
uplifted the hapless body of Elaine, and bore it to the hall.

1 Malory's ♦' King Arthur," Book XVIII.

LESSONS FROM NATURE'S BOOK.

Let us suppose that it is summer time, that you
are in the country, and that you have fixed upon a
certain day for a holiday ramble. Some of you are
going to gather wild flowers, some to collect pebbles,

5 and some without any very definite aim beyond the
love of the holiday and of any sport or adventure
which it may bring with it.

Soon after sunrise on the eventful day you are
awake, and great is your delight to find the sky

10 clear, and the sun shining warmly. It is arranged,
however, that you do not start until after breakfast
time, and meanwhile you busy yourselves in getting
ready all the baskets and sticks and other gear of
which you are to make use during the day. But the

16 brightness of the morning begins to get dimmed.
The few clouds which were to be seen at first have
grown large, and seem evidently gathering together
for a storm. And sure enough, ere breakfast is well
over, the first ominous big drops are seen falling.

20 You cling to the hope that it is only a shower
which will soon be over, and you go on with the
preparations for the journey notwithstanding. But
the rain shows no symptom of soon ceasing. The
big drops come down thicker and faster. Little

26 pools of water begin to form in the hollows of the

road, and the window panes are now streaming with
rain. With sad hearts you have to give up all hope
of holding your excursion to-day.

It is no doubt very tantalizing to be disappointed
in this way when the promised pleasure was on the 5
very point of becoming yours. But let us see if we
ca 1 not derive some compensation even from the bad
weather. Late in the afternoon the sky clears a
little, and the rain ceases. You are glad to get out-
side again, and so we all sally forth for a walk. 10
Streams of muddy water are still coursing along the
sloping roadway. If you will let me be your guide,
I would advise that we should take our walk by the
neighboring river. We wend our way by wet paths
and green lanes, where every hedgerow is still drip- 15
ping with moisture, until we gain the bridge, and
see the river right beneath us. What a change this
one day's heavy rain has made ! Yesterday you
could almost count the stones in the channel, so
small and clear was the current. But look at it 20
now !

The water fills the channel from bank to bank,
and rolls along swiftly. We can watch it for a little
from the bridge. As it rushes past, innumerable
leaves and twigs are seen floating on its surface. 26
Now and then a larger branch, or even a whole tree
trunk, comes down, tossing and rolling about on the

flood. Sheaves of straw or hay, planks of wood,
pieces of wooden fence, sometimes a poor duck,
unable to struggle against the current, roll past us
and show how the river has risen above its banks

5 and done damage to the farms higher up its course.

We linger for a while on the bridge, watching this

unceasing tumultuous rush of water and the constant

variety of objects which it carries down the channel.

You think it was perhaps almost worth while to lose

10 your holiday for the sake of seeing so grand a sight
as this angry and swollen river, roaring and rushing
with its full burden of dark water. Now, while the
scene is still fresh before you, ask yourselves a few
simple questions about it, and you will find perhaps

15 additional reasons for not regretting the failure of
the promised excursion.

In the first place, where does all this added mass
of water in the river come from ? You say it was
the rain that brought it. Well, but how should it

20 find its way into this broad channel ? Why does not
the rain run ofE the. ground without making any river
at all ?

But, in the second place, where does the rain come
from? In the early morning the sky was bright,

25 then clouds appeared, and then came the rain, and
you answer that it was the clouds which supplied the
rain. But the clouds must have derived the water

sen. HEAD. V. — 6

from some source. How is it that clouds gather
rain, and let it descend upon the earth?

In the third place, what is it which causes the
river to rush on in one direction more than another ?
When the water was low, and you could, perhaps, 5
almost step across the channel on the stones and
gravel, the current, small though it might be, was
still quite perceptible. You saw that the water was
moving along the channel always from the same
quarter. And now when the channel is filled with 10
this rolling torrent of dark water, you see that the
direction of the current is still the same. Can you
tell why this should be ?

Again, yesterday the water was clear, to-day it is
dark and discolored. Take a little of this dirty- 15
looking water home with you, and let it stand all
night in a glass. To-morrow morning you will find
that it is clear, and that a fine layer of mud has sunk
to the bottom. It is mud, therefore, which discolors
the swollen river. But where did this mud come 20
from ? Plainly, it must have something to do with
the heavy rain and the flooded state of the stream.

Well, this river, whether in shallow or in flood, is
always moving onward in one direction, and the mud
which it bears along is carried toward the same point 25
to which the river itself is hastening. While we sit
on the bridge watching the foaming water as it

eddies and whirls past us, the question comes home
to us — what becomes of all this vast quantity of
water and mud ?

Remember, now, that our river is only one of many

5 hundreds which flow across this country, and that
there are thousands more in other countries where
the same thing may be seen which we have been
watching to-day. They are all flooded when heavy
rains come ; they all flow downwards ; and all of

10 them carry more or less mud along with them.

As we walk homewards again, it will be well to
put together some of the chief features of this day's
experience. We have seen that sometimes the sky
is clear and blue, with the sun shining brightly and

15 warmly in it ; that sometimes clouds come across
the sky, and that, when they gather thickly, rain is
apt to fall. We have -seen that a river flows, that
it is swollen by heavy rain, and that when swollen it
is apt to be muddy. In this way we have learned

20 that there is a close connection between the sky
above us and the earth under our feet. In the
morning, it seemed but a little thing that clouds
should be seen gathering overhead ; and yet, ere even-
ing fell, these clouds led by degrees to the flooding

25 of the river, the sweeping down of trees and fences
and farm produce; and it might even be to the
destruction of bridges, the inundation of fields ?oci<i^

villages and towns, and a large destr action- of human
life and property.

But perhaps you live in a large town and have no
opportunity of seeing such country sights as I have
been describing, and in that case you may naturally 5
enough imagine that these things cannot have much
interest for you. You may learn a great deal, how-
ever, about rain and streams even in the streets of a
town. Catch a little of the rain in a plate, and you
will find it to be so much clear water. But look at it lo
as it courses along the gutters. You see how muddy
it is. It has swept away the loose dust worn by
wheels and feet from the stones of the street, and
carried it into the gutters. Each gutter thus be-
comes like the flooded river. You can watch, too, i5
how chips of straw, corks, bits of wood, and other
loose objects lying in the street are borne away, very
much as the trunks of trees are carried by the river.
Even in a town, therefore, you can see how changes
in the sky lead to changes on the earth. 20

If you think for a little, you will recall many
other illustrations of the way in which the common
things of everyday life are connected together. As
far back as you can remember, you have been famil-
iar with such things as sunshine, clouds, wind, rain, 25
rivers, frost, and snow, and they have grown so com-
monplace that you never think of considering about

them. You cannot imagine them, perhaps, as in any
way different from what they are ; they seem, in-
deed, so natural and so necessary that you may even
be surprised when any one asks you to give a reason

5 for them.

But if you had lived all your lives in a country
where no rain ever fell, and if you were to be
brought to such a country as this, and w^ere to see
such a storm of rain as you have been watching

10 to-day, would it not be very strange to you, and
would you not naturally enough begin to ask the
meaning of it ? Or suppose that a boy from some
very warm part of the world were to visit this
country in winter, and see for the first time snow

15 falling, and the rivers solidly frozen over, would you
be surprised if he showed great astonishment? If
he asked you to tell him what snow is, and why the
ground is so hard, and the air so cold, .why the
streams no longer flow, but have become crusted

20 with ice — could you answer his questions?

And yet these questions relate to very common,
everyday things. If you think about them, you will
learn, perhaps, that the answers are not quite so
easily found as you had imagined. Do not suppose

25 that because a thing is common, it can have no in-
terest foi: you. There is really nothing so common
as not to deserve your attention.

I would fain have you not to be content with what
is said in books, whether small or great, but rather
to get into the habit of using your own eyes and
seeing for yourselves what takes place in this won-
derful world of ours. All round you there is abun- 5
dant material for this most delightful inquiry. No
excursion you ever made in pursuit of mere enjoy-
ment and adventure by river, heath, or hill, could
give you more hearty pleasure than a ramble, with
eyes and ears alike open to note the lessons to beio
learned from every day and from every landscape.
Remember that besides the printed books which you
use at home, or at school, there is the great book of
Nature, wherein each of us, young and old, may read,
and go on reading all through life without exhaust- 15
ing even a small part of what it has to teach us.

It is this book — about Air, Earth, and Sea —
that I would have you look into. Do not be con-
tent with merely noticing that such and such events
take place. For instance, to return to our walk to 20
the flooded river : do not let a fact such as a storm
or a flood pass without trying to find out something
about it. Get into the habit of asking Nature ques-
tions. Never rest until you get at the reasons for
what you notice going on around you. 26

— Sir Archibald Oeikie,

THE GOODMAN OF BALLENGIECH.

Perhaps few books of Scottish history have been
more generally read than the " Tales of a Grand-
father," written seventy years ago by Sir Walter
Scott for the amusement of his little grandson.

5 These " Tales " are supposed to be taken from the
old Scotch chronicles, and they relate, with many
touches of romance, the stirring and most graphic
incidents in the early history of Scotland. They
embrace the stories of William Wallace, the patriot

10 chief, and of brave King Robert Bruce, and of many
another hero of Scotch history. The following ac-
count of King James V., who was the father of
Mary, Queen of Scots, is taken from these ^' Tales."

James the Fifth had a custom of going about the
16 country disguised as a private person, in order to
hear complaints that might not otherwise reach his
ears, and perhaps also to enjoy amusement which he
could not have partaken of in his character as King
of Scotland.
20 When James traveled in disguise he used a name
which was known only to some of his nobles and
attendants. He was called the Goodman (the ten-
ant, that is) of Ballengiech.^ Ballengiech is a steep

^ Pronounced b^U'en geek.

pass which leads down behind the castle of Stirling.
Once upon a time, when the court was feasting in
Stirling, the king sent for some venison from the
neighboring hills. The deer were killed and put
on horses' backs to be transported to Stirling.

Unluckily they had to pass the castle gates of
Arnpryor, belonging to a chief of the Buchanans,
who chanced to have a considerable number of guests
with him. It was late, and the company was rather
short of victuals, though they had more than enough lo
of liquor. The chief, seeing so much fat venison
passing his very door, seized on it; and to the
expostulations of the keepers, who told him it
belonged to King James, he answered insolently
that if James was king in Scotland, he, Buchanan, is
was king in Kippen, that being the name of the
district in which the castle of Arnpryor lay.

On hearing what had happened, the king got on
horseback and rode instantly from Stirling to
Buchanan's house, where he found a strong, fierce- 20
looking Highlander, with an ax on his shoulder,
standing sentinel at the door. This grim warder
refused the king admittance, saying that the laird
was at dinner and would not be disturbed. "Yet
go up to the company, my good friend," said the 25
king, " and tell him that the Goodman of Ballengiech
is come to feast with the King of Kippen."

The porter went grumbling into the house and
told his master that there was a fellow with a
red beard at the gate, who called himself the Good-
man of Ballengiech, and said he was come to dine
with the King of Kippen. As soon as Buchanan
heard these words, he knew that the king was come
in person, and hastened down to kneel at James's
feet and ask forgiveness for his insolent behavior.
But the king, who only meant to give him a fright,

10 forgave him freely, and going into the castle, feasted
on his own venison which the chief had taken from
his men. Buchanan of Ampryor was ever after-
wards called the King of Kippen.

Upon another occasion, King James, being alone

15 and in disguise, fell into a quarrel with some gypsies,
or other vagrants, and was assaulted by four or five
of them. This chanced to be very near the bridge of
Cramond ; so the king got on the bridge, which, as it
was high and narrow, enabled him to defend himself

20 with his sword against the number of persons by
whom he was attacked.

There was a poor farmer threshing corn in a
barn near by, who came out on hearing the noise of
the scuffle, and, seeing one man defending himself

25 against numbers, gallantly took the king's part with
his flail, to such good purpose that the gypsies were
obliged to fly. The farmer then took the king

into the barn, brought him a towel and water to
wash the blood from his face and hands, and finally
walked ,with him a little way toward Edinburgh,
in case he should be again attacked.

On the way, the king asked his companion what 5
and who he was. The man answered that his name
was John Howieson, and that he was a bondsman
on the farm of Braehead, near Cramond, which be-
longed to the King of Scotland. James then asked
him if there was any wish in the world which he 10
would particularly wish to have gratified; and hon-
est John confessed he should think himself the
happiest man in Scotland were he but proprietor of
the farm on which he wrought as a. laborer.

He then asked the king in turn who he was, 15
and James replied, as usual, that he was the Good-
man of Ballengiech, a poor man who had a small
appointment about the palace ; but he added that, if
John Howieson would come to see him on the next
Sunday, he would endeavor to repay his manful 20
assistance, and, at least, give him the pleasure of
seeing the royal apartments.

John put on his best clothes, as you may suppose,
and, appearing at a postern gate of the palace, in-
quired for the Goodman of Ballengiech. The king 25
had given orders that he should be admitted ; and
John found his friend, the goodman, in the same

disguise which he had formerly worn. The king,
conducted John Howieson from one apartment of
the palace to another, and was amused with his
wonder and his remarks.

At length James asked his visitor if he would
like to see the king; to which John replied that
nothing would delight him so much, if he could
do so without giving offense. The Goodman of
Ballengiech, of course, undertook that the king
^o would not be angry. "But," said John, "how am
I to know his grace from the nobles who will be
all about him?" — "Easily," replied his compan-
ion; "all the others will be uncovered — the king
alone will wear his hat or bonnet."

15 So speaking. King James introduced the country-
man into a great hall, which was filled with the
nobility and officers of the crown. John was a lit-
tle frightened, and drew close to his attendant, but
was still unable to distinguish the king. "I told

20 you that you should know him by his wearing his

hat," said the conductor. "Then," said John, after

he had again looked around the room, " it must be

either you or me, for all but us two are bareheaded."

The king laughed at John's fancy; and, that the

25 good yeoman might have occasion for mirth also,
he made him a present of the farm of Braehead,
which he had wished so much to possess.

BUGLE SONG.

The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story :

The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying.
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Oh hark ! oh hear ! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, further going !

Oh sweet and far, from cliff and scar^
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing !
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying :
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Oh love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river :
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

— Alfred Tennyson,

SOME EXPERIENCES AT SEA.

I. THE FIttST DAYS OUT.

In 1834, Richard Henry Dana, Jr., then a young
man of nineteen, made a voyage to California, which
was at that time almost an unknown region. He
went as a common sailor " before the mast " ; and
on his return he wrote a narrative of his experience,
depicting in its true colors the real life of the sailor
at sea. This narrative was published in a volume
entitled " Two Years before the Mast," and is still
regarded as one of the most interesting
o stories of its kind. The following i
Mr. Dana's account of some of his
first experiences at sea ; —

" With all my imperfections on
my head," I joined the crew. We •
15 hauled out into the stream, and
came to anchor for the night.
The next morning was Saturday ;
and, a breeze having sprung up
from the southward, we took a a fuu ngg^d etip.

30 pilot on board, hove up our anchor, and began beat-
ing down the bay.

I took leave of those of my friends who came to
Bee me off, and had barely opportunity to take a last
look at the city and well-known objects, as no time

is allowed on board ship for sentiment. As we drew
down into the lower harbor, we found the wind
ahead in the bay, and were obliged to come to
anchor in the roads. We remained there through
the day and a part of the night. 5

About midnight the wind became fair ; and hav-
ing called the captain, I was ordered to call all
hands. How I accomplished this I do not know;
but I am quite sure that I did not give the true,
hoarse, boatswain call of " A-a-11 ha-a-a-nds ! up la
anchor, a-ho-oy ! " In a short time every one was
in motion, the sails loosed, the yards braced, and we
began to heave up the anchor, which was our last
hold upon Yankee-land.

I could take but little part in these preparations, ic
My little knowledge of a vessel was all at fault.
Unintelligible orders were so rapidly given, and so
immediately executed, there was such a hurrying
about, such an intermingling of strange cries and
stranger actions, that I was completely bewildered. 20
There is not so helpless and pitiable an object in the
world as a landsman beginning a sailor's life.

The first day we passed at sea was the Sabbath.
As we were just from port, and there was a great
deal to be done on board, we were kept at work all 25
day. At night the watches were set, and everything
put into sea order. I had now a fine time for reflec-

tion. I felt for the first time the perfect silence of
the sea. The officer was walking the quarter-deck,
where I had no right to go. One or two men were
talking on the forecastle, whom I had little inclinar
tion to join; so that I was left open to the full
impression of everything about me.

However much I was affected by the beauty of the
sea, the bright stars, and the clouds driven swiftly
over them, I could not but remember that I was

r> separating myself from all the social and intellectual
enjoyments of life. Yet, strange as it may seem,
I did then and afterwards take pleasure in these
reflections, hoping by them to prevent my becoming
insensible to the value of what I was leaving.

i-5 But all my dreams were soon put to flight by an
order from the officer to trim the yards, as the wind
was getting ahead. I could plainly see, by the looks
the sailors occasionally cast to windward, and by the
dark clouds that were fast coming up, that we

20 had bad weather to prepare for, and had heard the
captain say that he expected to be in the Gulf
Stream by twelve o'clock. In a few minutes " eight
bells" was struck, the watch called, and we went
below.

26 I now bepjan to feel the first discomforts of a
sailor's life. The steerage in which I lived was
filled with coils of rigging, spare sails, old junk, and

ship stores, which had not been stowed away. More-
over, there had been no berths built for us to sleep
in, and we were not allowed to drive nails to hang
our clothes upon.

The sea, too, had risen, the vessel was rolling s
heavily, and everything was pitched about in grand
confusion. I shortly heard the raindrops falling on
deck, thick and fast. The watch had evidently their
hands full of work, for I could hear the loud and
repeated orders of the mate, the trampling of feet, ip
the creaking of blocks, and all the indications of a
coming storm.

When 1 got upon deck, a new scene and a new
experience were before me. The little brig was close-
hauled upon the wind, and lying over, as it then ^^
seemed to me, nearly upon her beam ends. The
heavy head sea was beating against her bows with,
the noise and force almost of a sledge hammer,
and flying over the deck, drenching us completely
through. The topsail halyards had been let go, ani
the great sails were filling out and backing against>
the masts with a noise like thunder. The wind wa
whistling through the rigging, loose ropes flyin
about; loud, and to me unintelligible, orders wer^
constantly given, and rapidly executed; and th^
sailors were ^^ singing out" at the ropes in thei:i'
hoarse and peculiar strains.

In addition to all this, I had not got my " sea legs

on/' was dreadfully sick, with hardly strength enough

to hold on to anything ; and it was pitch dark. This

was my state when I was ordered aloft, for the first

5 time, to reef topsails.

How I got along I cannot now remember. I '' laid
out " on the yards, and held on with all my strength.
I could not have been of much service, for I remem-
ber having been sick several times before I left the
10 topsail yard. Soon, however, all was snug aloft,
and we were again allowed to go below.

This I did not consider much of a favor, for the
confusion of every thing below, made the steerage but
an indifferent refuge from the cold, wet decks. I
15 had of t^n read of the nautical experiences of others,
but I felt as though there could be none worse than
mine ; for, in addition to every other evil, I could
not but remember that this was only the first night

of a two-years voyage.

II. VIEW OF AN ICEBERG.

20 At twelve o'clock we went below, and had just got
through dinner, when the cook put his head down
the scuttle, and told us to come on deck, and see the
finest sight we had ever seen.

" Where away, cook ? " asked the first man who

" On the larboard bow."

And there lay, floating in the ocean, several miles
off, an immense irregular mass, its tops and points
covered with snow, and its center of a deep indigo
color. It was an iceberg, and of the largest size. 5

As far as the eye could reach, the sea in every
direction was of a deep blue color, the waves running
high and fresh, and sparkling in the light ; and in
the midst lay this immense mountain island, its
cavities and valleys thrown into deep shade, andio
its points and pinnacles glittering in the sun.

No description can give an idea of the strangeness
and splendor of the sight. Its great size — for it
must have been two or three miles in circumference,
and several himdred feet in height ; its slow motion i5
as its base rose and sank in the water, and its high
points nodded against the clouds ; the dashing waves
upon, it, which, breaking high with foam, lined its
base with a white crust; and the thundering sound
of the crackling mass, and the breaking and tum-20
bling down of huge pieces ; together with its near-
ness and approach, which added a slight element of
fear — all combined to give it the character of true
sublimity.

The main body of the mass was, as I have said, of-^
an indigo color, its base crusted with frozen foam;
and as it grew thin and transparent toward the

edges and top, its color shaded off from a deep blue
to the whiteness of snow. It seemed to be drifting
slowly toward the north. It was in sight all the
afternoon, and when we got to leeward of it the

5 wind died away, so that we lay to quite near it for
the greater part of the night.

Unfortunately there was no moon ; but it was a
clear night, and we could plainly mark the long,
regular heaving mass, as its edges moved slowly

10 against the stars. Several times in our watch loud
cracks were heard, which sounded as though they
must have run through the whole length of the ice-
berg, and several pieces fell down with a thundering
crash, plunging heavily into the sea. Towards

16 morning a breeze sprang up, we filled away, and

left it astern, and at daylight it was out of sight.

No pencil has ever yet given anything like a true

effect of an iceberg. In a picture they are huge,

uncouth masses stuck in the sea; while their chief

20 beauty and grandeur — their slow, stately motion, the
whirling of the snow about their summits, and the
fearful groaning and crackling of their parts —
the picture cannot give. This is the large iceberg ;
while the small and distant islands, floating on the

25 smooth sea in the light of a clear day, look like little
floating fairy isles of sapphire.
— From " Two Tears before the Mast,^^ by Bichard Henry Dana,

DANIEL BOONE.

The settlement of the wilderness beyond the Alle-
ghany Mountains was promoted by native pioneers.
In his peaceful habitation on the banks of the Yad-
kin River in North Carolina, Daniel
liooiie, the illustrious hunter, had "
heard Finley, a trader, describe a
tract of land, west of Virginia,
as the richest in North Amer-
ica, or in the world. In May,
1769, leaving his wife and lo
offspring, having Finley as
hi& pilot, and four others as
companions, the young man,
of about three and twenty,
""^**"- wandered foHh through the is

wilderness of America " in quest of the country of
Kentucky," known to the savages as "the dark
and bloody ground." After a long and fatiguing
journey through mountain ranges, the party found
themselves in June on the Red River, a tributary of m
the Kentucky, and from the top of an eminence sur-
veyed with delight the beautiful plain that stretched
to the northwest. Here they built their shelter and
began to reconnoiter the country, and to hvint.

101

All the kinds of wild beasts that were natural to
America — the stately elk, the timid deer, the ant-
lered stag, the wild-cat, the bear, the panther, and
the wolf — couched among the canes, or roamed

5 over the rich grasses, which even beneath the thick-
est shade sprung luxuriantly out of the generous
soil. The buffaloes cropped fearlessly the herbage,
or browsed on the leaves of the reed, and were more
frequent than cattle in the settlements of Carolina.

10 Sometimes there were hundreds in a drove, and
round the salt licks their numbers were amazing.

The summer in which, for the first time, a party
of white men enjoyed the brilliancy of nature near
and in the valley of the Elkhorn passed away in the

15 occupations of exploring parties and the chase. But,
one by one, Boone's companions dropped off, till he
was left alone with John Stewart. They jointly
found unceasing delight in the wonders of the
forest, till, one evening near the Kentucky River,

20 they were taken prisoners by a band of Indians, wan-
derers like themselves. They escaped, and were
joined by Boone's brother ; so that when Stewart
was soon after killed by savages, Boone still had
his brother to share with him the dangers and the

25 attractions of the wilderness, the building and occu-
pying of the first cottage in Kentucky.

In the spring of 1770 that brother returned to the

102

settlements for horses and supplies of ammunition,
leaving the renowned hunter "by himself, without
bread, or salt, or even a horse or dog." The idea of
a beloved wife anxious for his safety, tinged his
thoughts with sadness; but otherwise the cheerful, 6
meditative man, careless of wealth, knowing the use
of the rifle, not the plow, of a strong robust frame,
in the vigorous health of early manhood, ignorant
of books, but versed in the forest and in forest life,
ever fond of tracking the deer on foot, away from lo
men, yet in his disposition humane, generous, and
gentle, was happy in the uninterrupted succession of
sylvan pleasures. He held unconscious intercourse
with beauty old as creation.

One calm summer's evening, as he climbed a com- is
manding ridge, and looked upon the remote, venera-
ble mountains and the nearer ample plains, and
caught a glimpse in the distance of the Ohio, which
bounded the land of his affections with majestic
grandeur, his heart exulted in the region he had 20
discovered. All things were still. Not a breeze so
much as shook a leaf. He kindled a fire near a
fountain of sweet water, and feasted on the loin of
a buck. He was no more alone than ,a bee among
flowers, but communed familiarly with the 'wholes
universe of life. Nature was his intimate, and she
responded to his intelligence.

103

For him the rocks and the fountains, the leaf and
the blade of grass, had life ; the cooling air laden
with the wild perfume came to him as a friend ; the
dewy morning wrapped him in its embrace ; the

5 trees stood up gloriously round about him as so
many myriads of companions. All forms wore the
character of desire or peril. But how could he be
afraid ? Triumphing over danger, he knew no fear.
The perpetual howling of the wolves by night round

10 his cottage or his bivouac in the brake was his diver-
sion; and by day he had joy in surveying the various
species of animals that surrounded him. He loved
the solitude better than the towered city or the hum
of business.

15 Near the end of 1770, his faithful brother came
back to meet him at the old camp. Shortly after they
proceeded together to the Cumberland River, giving
names to the different waters ; and he then returned
to his wife and children, fixed in his purpose, at the

20 risk of life and fortune, to bring them as soon as pos-
sible to live in Kentucky, which he esteemed a second

Paradise.

II.

In March, 1775, Daniel Boone, with a body of

enterprising companions, proceeded to mark out a

25 path up Powell's valley, and through the mountains

and canebrakes beyond. On the twenty-fifth of the

104

month they were waylaid by Indians, who killed two
men and wounded another very severely. Two days
later the savages killed and scalped two more.
" Now/' wrote Daniel Boone, '^ is the time to keep
the country while we are in it. If we give way now, 5
it will ever be the case," and he pressed forward
to the Kentucky River. There, on the first day of
April, at the distance of about sixty yards from its
west bank, near the mouth of Otter Creek, he began
a stockade fort, which took the name of Boonesboro. 10

At that place, while the congress at Philadelphia
was groping irresolutely in the dark, seventeen men
assembled as representatives of the four "towns"
that then formed the seed of the state. Among
these children of nature was Daniel Boone, the pio-is
neer of the party. His colleague, Richard Calloway,
was one of the founders of Kentucky, and one of its
early martyrs. The town of St. Asaph sent John
Floyd, a surveyor, who emigrated from southwestern
Virginia; an able writer, respected for his culture 20
and dignity of manner; of innate good breeding;
ready to defend the weak ; heedless of his own life if
he could recover women and children who had been
made captive by the savages ; destined to do good
service, and survive the dangers of western life tillr.*
American independence should be fought for and won.

From the settlement at Boiling Spring came James

105

Harrod, the same who, in 1774, had led a party of
forty-one to Harrodsburg, and during the summer
of that year had built the first log-cabin in Ken-
tucky ; a tall, erect, and resolute backwoodsman ;

5 unlettered but not ignorant ; intrepid yet gentle ;
never weary of kind offices to those around him ; a
skillful hunter, for whom the rifle had a companion-
ship, and the wilderness a charm.

These and their associates;, the fathers of Ken-

lotucky, seventeen in all, met on the 23d of May,
beneath the great elm tree of Boonesboro, outside of
the fort, on the thick sward of the fragrant white
clover. The convention having been organized,
prayers were read by a minister of the Church of

15 England. A speech was then delivered to the con-
vention in behalf of the proprietary purchases of the
land from the Cherokees. To it a committee, of
which Calloway was the head, made reply. '^Deeply
impressed," they said, "with a sense of the importance

20 of the trust our constituents have reposed in us, we
will attempt the task with vigor, not doubting but
unanimity will insure us success. That we have a
right, as a political body, without giving umbrage to
Great Britain, or any of the colonies, to frame rules

25 for the government of our little society, cannot be
doubted by any sensible or unbiased mind."

So reasoned the fathers of Kentucky. In their

106

legislation, it was their chief care to copy after the
happy pattern of the English laws. Their colony
they called Transylvania. For defense against the
savages, they organized a militia ; they discounte-
nanced profane swearing and Sabbath breaking ; they 5
took thought for preventing the waste of game, and
improving the breed of horses ; and by solemn agree-
ment they established as the basis of their constitu-
tion the annual choice of delegates; taxes to be
raised by the convention alone ; perfect religious lo
freedom and general toleration.

Thus a little band of hunters put themselves at
the head of the countless hosts of civilization in
establishing the great principle of intellectual free-
dom. Long as the shadows of the western mountain i5
shall move round with the sun, long as the rivers
that gush from those mountains shall flow toward
the sea, long as seedtime and harvest shall return,
that rule shall remain the law of the West.

The state of Kentucky honors the memory of the 20
plain, simple-hearted man, who is best known as its
pioneer. He was kindly in his nature, and never
wronged a human being, not even an Indian, nor,
indeed, animal life of any kind. "I with others
have fought Indians," he would say; "but I do not 25
know that I ever killed one. If I did, it was in
battle, and I never knew it." In woodcraft he was

6 and travel. When, at last, death put them both to
rest, Kentucky reclaimed their bones from their graves
far up the Missouri; and now they lie buried on the
hill above the cliffs of the Kentucky River, overlook-
ing the lovely valley of the capital of that common-

10 wealth. Around them are emblems of wilderness life ;
the turf of the blue grass lies lightly above them ;
and they are laid with their faces
turned upward and westward, and
their feet toward the setting sim.

IS Such is the account which
George Bancroft, the first of
American historians, gives of
Daniel Boone, the pioneer
of Kentucky, and of the

» founding of the common-
wealth of which Boone was

IMOIgS JMDDIOtt.

the earnest and most distm-

guished promoter. Few other works have contrib-
uted so much to the dignity and distinction of our
^literature as has Bancroft's "History of the United
States," from which this extract has been taken.

" On the larboard bow."

No description can give an idea of the strangeness
and splendor of the sight. Its great size — for it
must have been two or three miles in circumference,
and several hundred feet in height ; its slow motion 15
as its base rose and sank in the water, and its high
points nodded against the clouds ; the dashing waves
upon it, which, breaking high with foam, lined its
base with a white crust; and the thundering sound
of the crackling mass, and the breaking and turn- 20
bling down of huge pieces ; together with its near-
ness and approach, which added a slight element of
fear — all combined to give it the character of true
sublimity.

The main body of the mass was, as I have said, of ':;,
an indigo color, its base crusted with frozen foam ;
and as it grew thin and transparent toward the

5 wind died away, so that we lay to quite near it for
the greater part of the night.

Unfortunately there was no moon ; but it was a
clear night, and we could plainly mark the long,
regular heaving mass, as its edges moved slowly

16 morning a breeze sprang up, we filled away, and

left it astern, and at daylight it was out of sight.

No pencil has ever yet given anything like a true

effect of an iceberg. In a picture they are huge,

uncouth masses stuck in the sea ; while their chief

25 smooth sea in the light of a clear day, look like little
floating fairy isles of sapphire.
— From " Two Years before the Mast/' by Richard Henry Dana,

100
DANIEL BOONE.

The settlement of the wilderness beyond the Alle-
ghany Mountains was promoted by native pioneers.
In his peaceful habitation on the banks of the Yad-
kin River in North Carolina, Daniel
Boone, the illustrious hunter, had »
Iieard Finley, a trader, describe a
tract of land, west of Virginia,
as the richest in North Amer-
ica, or in the world. In May,
1769, leaving his wife and lo
offspring, having Finley as
his pilot, and four others as
companions, the young man,
of about three and twenty,
'^' wandered forth through the is

wilderness of America " in quest of the country of
Kentucky," known to the savages as "the dark
and bloody ground," After a long and fatiguing
journey through mountain ranges, the party found
themselves in June on the Red River, a tributary of 20
the Kentucky, and from the top of an eminence sur-
veyed with delight the beautiful plain that stretched
to the northwest. Here they built their shelter and
began to reconnoiter the country, and to hunt.

101

10 Sometimes there were hundreds in a drove, and
round the salt licks their numbers were amazing.

The summer in which, for the first time, a party
of white men enjoyed the brilliancy of nature near
and in the valley of the Elkhorn passed away in the

25 attractions of the wilderness, the building and occu-
pying of the first cottage in Kentucky.

In the spring of 1770 that brother returned to the

102

One calm summer's evening, as he climbed a com- is
manding ridge, and looked upon the remote, venera-
ble mountains and the nearer ample plains, and
caught a glimpse in the distance of the Ohio, which
bounded the land of his affections with majestic
grandeur, his heart exulted in the region he had 20
discovered. All things were still. Not a breeze so
much as shook a leaf. He kindled a fire near a
fountain of sweet water, and feasted on the loin of
a buck. He was no more alone than ,a bee among
flowers, but communed familiarly with the 'whole 25
universe of life. Nature was his intimate, and she
responded to his intelligence.

103

For him the rocks and the fountains, the leaf and
the blade of grass, had life; the cooling air laden
with the wild perfume came to him as a friend ; the
dewy morning wrapped him in its embrace; the

10 his cottage or his bivouac in the brake was his diver-
sion ; and by day he had joy in surveying the various
species of animals that surrounded him. He loved
the solitude better than the towered city or the hum
of business.

20 risk of life and fortune, to bring them as soon as pos-
sible to live in Kentucky, which he esteemed a second

Paradise.

II.

In March, 1775, Daniel Boone, with a body of

enterprising companions, proceeded to mark out a

25 path up Powell's valley, and through the mountains

and canebrakes beyond. On the twenty-fifth of the

104

month they were waylaid by Indians, who killed two
men and wounded another very severely. Two days
later the savages killed and scalped two more.
" Now/' wrote Daniel Boone, ^^ is the time to keep
the country while we are in it. If we give way now, 5
it will ever be the case," and he pressed forward
to the Kentucky River. There, on the first day of
April, at the distance of about sixty yards from its
west bank, near the mouth of Otter Creek, he began
a stockade fort, which took the name of Boonesboro. 10

At that place, while the congress at Philadelphia
was groping irresolutely in the dark, seventeen men
assembled as representatives of the four "towns"
that then formed the seed of the state. Among
these children of nature was Daniel Boone, the pio-is
neer of the party. His colleague, Richard Calloway,
was one of the founders of Kentucky, and one of its
early martyrs. The town of St. Asaph sent John
Floyd, a surveyor, who emigrated from southwestern
Virginia; an able writer, respected for his culture 20
and dignity of manner; of innate good breeding;
ready to defend the weak ; heedless of his own life if
he could recover women and children who had been
made captive by the savages ; destined to do good
service, and survive the dangers of western life till r;5
American independence should be fought for and won.

From the settlement at Boiling Spring came James

105

Harrod, the same who, in 1774, had led a party of
forty-one to Harrodsburg, and during the summer
of that year had built the first log-cabin in Ken-
tucky ; a tall, erect, and resolute backwoodsman ;

5 unlettered but not ignorant ; intrepid yet gentle ;
never weary of kind offices to those around him ; a
skillful hunter, for whom the rifle had a companion-
ship, and the wilderness a charm.

These and their associates;, the fathers of Ken-

15 for the government of our little society, cannot be
doubted by any sensible or unbiased mind."

So reasoned the fathers of Kentucky. In their

106

acknowledged to be the first among men. This led
him to love solitude, and to hover on the frontier,
with no abiding place, accompanied by the wife of
his youth, who was the companion of his long life
and travel. When, at last, death put them both to
rest, Kentucky reclaimed their bones from their graves
far up the Missouri ; and now they lie buried on the
hill a!x)ve the cliffs of the Kentucky River, overlook-
ing the lovely valley of the capital of that eommon-
) wealth. Around them are emblems of wilderness life ;
the turf of the blue grass lies lightly above them ;
and they are laid with their faces
turned upward and westward, and
their feet toward the setting sun.

i Such is the account which
George Bancroft, the first of
American historians, gives of
Daniel Boone, the pioneer
of Kentucky, and of the

» founding of the common-
wealth of which Boone was

u«oig« MHoion.
the earliest and most distm-

guished promoter. Few other works have contrib-
uted so much to the dignity and distinction of our
'literature as has Bancroft's "History of the United
' from which this extract has been taken.

FULTON'S FIRST STEAMBOAT.

It is common to speak of Robert Fulton as the
inventor of the steamboat. Other persons before
him, however, had esperimented with
machinery for propelling vessels by
steam. They had met with but lit- s
tie success or encouragement, and
it was left for Fulton to demon-
strate the practical value of
steam as a means of propul-
sion and to show the superi-w
ority of steamboats to vessels
depending solely upon the wind
for motive power, Robert Fulton

Eobert Fulton.

was born m Pennsylvania m 1765.
He began his experiments with steam in 1793, andw
his first successful steamboat, the "Clermont," was
launched on the Hudson in 1807. The trip from
New York to Albany occupied thirty-two hours, the
rate of speed being about five miles an hour. Mr.
Fulton himself has left us the following account oi^
the trial of his boat : —

When I was building my first steamboat, the
project was viewed by the public at New York
either with indifference or contempt, as a vision-

109

ary scheme. My friends indeed were civil, but they
were shy. They listened with patience to my expla-
nations, but with a settled cast of incredulity on
their countenances. I felt the full force of the
lamentation of the poet —

*' Truths would you teach, to save a sinking land ?
All shun, none aid you, and few understand."

As I had occasion to pass daily to and from the
building yard while my boat was in progress, I

often loitered, unknown, near the idle groups of
strangers gathering in little circles, and heard vari-
ous inquiries as to the object of this new vehicle.
The language was uniformly that of scorn, sneer,
or ridicule. The loud laugh rose at my expense;

.5 the dry jest, the wise calculations of losses and
expenditure ; the dull but endless repetition of '' the
Fulton folly V Never did an encouraging remark,
a bright hope, or a warm wish cross my path.

At length the day arrived when the experiment

iowas to be made. To me it was a most trying
and interesting occasion. I wanted my friends to
go on board and witness the first successful trip.
Many of them did me the favor to attend, as a
matter of personal respect ; but it was manifest

55 they did it with reluctance, fearing to be partakers
of my mortification and not of my triumph.

The moment approached in which the word was

110

to be given for the vessel to move. My friends were
in groups on the deck. There was anxiety mixed
with fear among them. I read in their looks noth-
ing but disaster, and almost repented of my efforts.
The signal was given, and the boat moved on a short 5
distance, and then stopped and became immovable.

To the silence of the preceding moment now suc-
ceeded murmurs of discontent and agitation, and

whispers and shrugs. I could
hear distinctly repeated, "1 10
told you so — it is a foolish
scheme. I wish we were
„, ,,^, .. well out of it." I elevated

The " Clermont."

myself on a platform, and
addressed the assembly. I stated that I knew not 15
what was the matter ; but if they would indulge me
for half an hour, I would either go on or abandon
the voyage for that time.

This short respite was conceded without objection.
I went below and examined the machinery, and dis- 20
covered that the cause was a slight defect in a
part of the work. This was soon remedied; the
boat was put again in motion ; she continued to
move on. All were still incredulous; none seemed
willing to trust the evidence of their own senses. 25

We left the fair city of New York ; we passed
through the romantic and ever-varying scenery of

the Highlands; we descried the clustering houses
of Albany ; we reached its shores ; yet even then
imagination superseded the force of fact. It was
doubted if it could be done again.

THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE TREE.

Come, let us plant the apple
tree !
Cleave the tough greensward witli

the spade ;
Wide let its hollow bed be

made;
There gently lay the roots,

and there
Sift the dark mold with

kindly care,
And press it o'er them tenderly, wmum odien Bryant,

As round the sleeping infant's feet
We softly fold the cradle sheet ;
So plant we the apple tree.

What plant we in this apple tree ?
Buds, which the breath of summer days
Shall lengthen into leafy sprays ;
Boughs, where the thrush with crimson breast

112

Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest.

We plant upon the sunny lea
A shadow for the noontide hour,
A shelter from the summer shower,

When we plant the apple tree.

What plant we in this apple tree ?
Sweets for a hundred flowery springs
To load the May wind's restless wings,
When from the orchard row he pours
Its fragrance through our open doors.

A world of blossoms for the bee,
Flowers for the sick girl's silent room.
For the glad infant sprigs of bloom

We plant with the apple tree.

What plant we in this apple tree ?
Fruits that shall swell in sunny June,
And redden in the August noon.
And drop when gentle airs come by
That fan the blue September sky,

While children, wild with noisy glee,
Shall scent their fragrance as they pass
And search for them the tufted grass

At the foot of the apple tree.

And when above this apple tree
The winter stars are quivering bright.

113

And winds go howling through the night,
Girls whose young eyes overflow with mirth
Shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth ;

And guests in prouder homes shall see,
Heaped with the orange and the grape,
As fair as they in tint and shape.

The fruit of the apple tree.

The fruitage of this apple tree
Winds and our flag of stripe and star
Shall bear to coasts that lie afar,
Where men shall wonder at the view
And ask in what fair groves they grew ;

And they who roam beyond the sea
Shall think of childhood's careless day
And long hours passed in summer play

In the shade of the apple tree.

But time shall waste this apple tree.
Oh ! when its aged branches throw
Their shadows on the world below.
Shall fraud and force and iron will
Oppress the weak and helpless still ?

What shall the task of mercy be
Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears
Of those who live when leno-th of years

Is wasting this apple tree ?

SCH. BEAD. V. — 8

" Who planted this old apple tree ? "
The children of that distant day
Thus to some aged man shall say ;
And, gazing on its mossy stem,
The gray-haired man shall answer them :

" A poet of the land was he,
Bom in the rude but good old times ;
'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes

On planting the apple tree."

— William Cullen Bryant.

THE CORN SONG.

Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard!
Heap high the golden corn !
No richer gift has Autumn poured
From out her lavish horn !

Let other lands, exulting, glean
The apple from the pine,
The orange from its glossy green,
The cluster from the vine ;

John S. Whittier.

We better love the hardy gift
Our rugged vales bestow,

115

To cheer us when the storm shall drift
Our harvest fields with snow.

Through vales of grass and meads of flowers

Our plows their furrows made,
While on the hills the sun and showers

Of changeful April played.

We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain

Beneath the sun of May,
And frightened from our sprouting grain

The robber crows away.

All through the long, bright days of June

Its leaves grew green and fair,
And waved in hot, midsummer's noon

Its soft and yellow hair.

And now with autumn's moonlit eves,

Its harvest time has come.
We pluck away the frosted leaves.

And bear the treasure home.

There, when the snows about us drift.

And winter winds are cold.
Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,

And knead its meal of gold.

116

Let vapid idlers loll in silk

Around their costly board ;
Give us the bowl of samp and milk

By homespun beauty poured !

Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth

Sends up its smoky curls,
Who will not thank the kindly earth,

And bless our farmer girls !

Then shame on all the proud and vain,

Whose folly laughs to scorn
The blessing of our hardy grain,

Our wealth of golden corn !

Let earth withhold her goodly root,

Let mildew blight the rye.
Give to the worm the orchard's fruit,

The wheatfield to the fly.

But let the good old crop adorn

The hills our fathers trod ;
Still let us, for his golden corn.

Send up our thanks to God.

— John G, Whittier.

HUNTING THE WALRUS.

The walrus is one of the largest animals still
extant, and although the element of personal danger
is not so great in hunting it as in hunting some
beasts of lesser bulk, yet the conditions under which

ValnuH it Home,

the sport is pursued, as well as the nature of the
iport itself, are such as will probably tempt one who
bas once tried this form of sport to return to it.

An average-sized four-year-old walrus will measure
ten feet in length and about the same in girth. The
weight is, of course, difficult to determine ; but it is
probably about 3000 pounds, of which 350 pounds
may be reckoned as blubber, and 300 pounds as hide.

118

The blubber, to be utilized, is mixed with that of
the seals which may be obtained, and the oil, which
is extracted by heat and pressure, sold as " seal oil " ;
the hide, which is from an inch to an inch and a half
in thickness, and makes a soft, spongy leather, is s
exported principally to Russia and Germany, where
it is used for making harness and other heavy
leather goods.

The walrus is a carnivorous animal, feeding mostly
upon shellfish and worms, and is therefore generally lo
found in the shallow waters along a coast line, div-
ing for its food on banks which lie at a depth of
from two to twenty fathoms below the surface.
Deeper than that the walrus does not care to go; in
fact, it generally feeds in about fifteen fathoms. i5

The tusks are principally used to plow up the
bottom in search of food, but are also employed as
weapons, and in climbing upon the ice. They are
composed of hard white ivory, set for about six
inches of their length in a hard bony mass, about 20
six inches in diameter, which forms the front of the
head ; the breathing passage runs through this mass,
and terminates in two "blow holes" between the
roots of the tusks. The tusk itself is solid, except
that portion which is imbedded in the bone, and this 26
is filled with a cellular structm*e containing a whitish
oil.

119

A walrus killed in the water immediately sinks ;
even if mortally wounded, it will in nine cases out of
ten escape, and sink to the bottom. When on the
ice, these animals always lie close to the water, and

5 it is therefore necessary to kill them instantly, or
they will reach the water and be lost before the boat
can arrive within harpooning distance. This can
only be done by shooting them in such a way as to
penetrate the brain, which is no easy matter. The

10 brain lies in what appears to be the neck; that
which one would naturally suppose to be the head
being nothing but the heavy jaw bones, and mass of
bone in which the tusks are set.

What becomes of the walrus in winter it is hard

15 to say ; but I have heard them blowing in an open
pool of water among the ice on the north coast
of Spitzbergen in the month of December. In the
spring, however, when the ice begins to break up,
they collect in herds on their feeding grounds around

20 the coasts, where they may be found diving for shell-
fish, or basking and sleeping, singly or in ^'heaps'' of
two or three, often five or six, together.

They seem to prefer to lie on small cakes of flat
bay ice; a single walrus will often take his siesta on

25 a cake only just large enough to float him, and it is
among such ice, therefore, rather than among rough
old pack and glacier blocks, that they should be

120

sought, although I have seen them lying on heavy
old water-worn ice, four and five feet above the
water. In this case, however, they had no choice.

The boats of the walrus hunters are strongly yet
lightly built. They are bow-shaped at both ends; 5
the stem and stern posts are made thick and strong
in order to resist the blows of the ice, and the bow
sheathed with zinc plates to prevent excessive chaf-
ing. It is most important that they should be easy
and quick in turning, and this quality is obtained by lo
depressing the keel in the middle. They are painted
red inside and white butside, so that they may not
be conspicuous amongst ice, but the hunters stultify
this idea to some extent by dressing themselves in
dark colors. i.>

The harpoon, the point and edges of which are
ground and whetted to a razor-like sharpness, is a
simple but very effective weapon. When thrust into
a walrus or seal, a large outer barb " takes up " a
loop of the tough hide, whilst a small inner fishhook jo
barb prevents it from becoming disengaged, so that
when once properly harpooned, it is seldom, if ever,
that an animal escapes through the harpoon " draw-
ing." The harpoon line consists of sixteen fathoms
of two-inch tarred rope, very carefully made of the 25
finest hemp, "soft laid"; each line is neatly coiled
in a separate box placed beneath the forward thwart.

121

A boat's crew consists of four or five men, and the
quickness with which they can turn their boat is
greatly accelerated by their method of rowing and
steering. Each man rows with a pair of oars, which

6 he can handle much better than one long one when
amongst ice.

The harpooner, who commands the boat's crew,
rows from the bow thwart, near the weapons and
telescope, which he alone uses. It is he who searches

10 for game, and decides on the method of attack when
it is found. " No. 2," generally the strongest man
in the boat, is called the "line man"; it is his duty
to tend the line when a walrus is struck, and to
assist the harpooner.

15 In such a boat, then, one lovely September morn-
ing, we are rowing easily back to the sloop, which is
lying off Bird Bay, a small indentation in the east
face of the northernmost point of Spitzbergen. The
harpooner is balancing himself, one foot on the

20 forward locker, and one on the thwart, examining
through a telescope something which appears to be
a lump of dirty ice, about 'half a mile away. Sud-

. denly he closes his glass and seizes the oars. " There
he is ! " he says, and without another word the boat

25 is headed for the black mass.

Now we are within a couple of hundred yards, and
each man crouches in the bottom of the boat, the

122

harpooner still in the bow, his eyes intently fixed
upon the walrus. Suddenly the walrus raises his
head, and we are motionless. It is intensely still,
and the scraping of a piece of ice along the boat
seems like the roar of a railway train passing over- 6
head on some bridge. Down goes the head, and we
glide forward again. The walrus is imeasy; again
and again he raises his head and looks round with a
quick motion, but we have the sun right at our back,
and he never notices us. lo

At last we are within a few feet, and with a shout
of "Wake up, old boy!" which breaks the stillness
like a shot, the harpooner is on his feet, his weapon ,
clasped in both hands above his head. As the walrus
plunges into the sea, the iron is buried in his side, i5
and, with a quick twist to prevent the head from
slipping out of the same slit that it has cut in the
thick hide, the handle is withdrawn and thrown into
the boat. Bumping and scraping amongst the float-
ing ice, we are towed along for about five minutes, 20
^nd then stop as the wounded walrus comes to the
surface to breathe.

In the old days the lance would finish the busi-
ness, but now it is the rifle. He is facing the boat;
I sight for one of his eyes, and let him haVe both 25
barrels, without much effect apparently, for away we
rush for two or three minutes more, when he is up

123

again, still facing the boat. He seems to care no
more for the solid "Express" bullets than if they
were peas ; but he is slow this time, and, as he turns
to dive, exposes the fatal spot at the back of the

5 head, and dies.

Few men are likely ever to forget the first occa-
sion on which they found themselves amongst a herd
of walrus in the water. Scores of fierce-looking
heads — for the long tusks, small bloodshot eyes, and

10 moustache on the upper lip (every bristle of which is
as thick as a crow quill) give the walrus an expres-
sion of ferocity — gaze, perhaps in unbroken silence,
from all sides upon the boat. See ! the sun glints
along a hundred wet backs, and they are gone.

15 Away you row at racing speed to where experi-
ence tells yoQ they will rise again. " Here they are!
Take that old one with long tusks first ! " A couple
of quick thrusts, right and left, and away you go
again, fast to two old fellows that will want a good

20 deal of attention before you can cut their tusks out.
Indeed, unless one has served hh apprenticeship, he
had better not meddle with the harpoon at all. The
old skippers and harpooners can spin many a yarn
of lost crews and boats gone under the ice through a

25 fatal moment's delay in cutting free from the diving
walrus.

— From ^^Big Game Shooting,^'

124
THE DESTRUCTION OF POMPEII.

I. HISTORY.

Volcanoes can never be trusted. No one knows
when one will break out, or what it will do; and
those who live close to them — as the city of Naples
is close to Mount Vesuvius — must not be astonished
if they are blown up or swallowed, as that great and 5
beautiful city of Naples may be without a warning,
any day.

For what happened to that same Mount Vesuvius
about eighteen hundred years ago in the old Roman
times ? For ages and ages it had been lying quiet, 10
like any other hill. Beautiful cities were built at its
foot — cities filled with people who were as hand-
some and as comfortable and, I am afraid, as wicked
as any people ever were on earth. Fair gardens,
vineyards, and olive yards covered the mountain is
slopes. It was held to be one of the Paradises of
the world.

As for the mountain's being a volcano, who ever
thought of that? To be sure, the top of it was
a great round crater, or cup, a mile or more across, 20
and a few hundred yards deep. But that was all
overgrown with bushes and wild vines full of deer
and other wild animals. What sign of fire was there
in that ? To be sure, also, there was an ugly place

125

below, by the seashore, where smoke and brunstone
came out of the ground ; and a lake called Avernus,
over which poisonous gases hung. But what of
that^ It had never harmed any one, and how

5 could it harm them ?

So they all lived on, merrily and happily enough,
till the year a.d. 79. At that time there was sta-
tioned in the Bay of Naples a Roman admiral, called
Pliny, who was also a very studious and learned

10 man, and author of a famous old book on natural
history. He was staying on shore with his sister;
and as he sat in his study, she called him out to
see a strange cloud which had been hanging for some
time over the top of Mount Vesuvius. It was in

16 shape just like a pine tree ; not, of course, like the
pines which grow in this country, but like an Italian
stone pine, with a long straight stem and a flat
parasol-shaped top .

Sometimes it was blackish, sometimes spotted ;

20 and the good Admiral Pliny, who was always curi-
ous about natural science, ordered his rowboat and
went away across the bay to see what it could be.
Earthquake shocks had been very common for the
last few days, but I do not suppose that Pliny

26 thought that the earthquakes and the cloud had
anything to do with each other. However, he soon
found* out that they had ; and to his cost.- When

126

he was near the opposite shore, some of the sailors
met him and begged him to turn back. Cinders and
pumice stones were falling down from the sky, and
flames were breaking out of the mountain above.
But Pliny would go on : he said that if people were 5
in danger it was his duty to help them ; and that he
must see this strange cloud, and note down the differ-
ent shapes into which it changed.

But the hot ashes fell faster and faster; the sea
ebbed out suddenly, and almost left them on the lo
beach ; and Pliny turned away towards a place called
Stabiae, to the house of an old friend who was just
going to escape in a boat. Brave Pliny told him not
to be afraid ; ordered his bath like a true Roman
gentleman, and then went in to dinner with a cheer- 15
ful face. Flames came down from the mountain,
nearer and nearer as the night drew on ; but Pliny
persuaded his friend that they were only fires in
some villages from which the peasants had fled;
and then went to bed and slept soundly. 20

However, in the middle of the night, they found
the courtyard being fast filled with cinders, and
if they had not awakened the Admiral in time, he
would never have been able to get out of the
house. 25

The earthquake shocks grew stronger and fiercer,
till the house was ready to fall ; and Pliny and his

128

friend, and the sailors and the slaves, all fled into
the open fields, having pillows over their heads to
prevent their being beaten down. By this time,
day had come, but not the dawn : for it was still
pitch dark. They went down to their boats upon 5
the shore ; but the sea raged so horribly that there
was no getting on board of them.

Then Pliny grew tired and made his men spread
a sail for him that he might lie down upon it.
But there came down upon them a rush of flames lo
and a strong smell of sulphur, and all ran for
their lives.

Some of the slaves tried to help the Admiral ; but
he sank down again, overpowered by the brimstone
fumes, and so was left behind. When they came is
back again, there he lay dead ; but with his clothes
in order, and his face as quiet as if he had been only
sleeping. And that was the end of a brave and
learned man, a martyr to duty and to the love of
science. 20

But what was going on in the meantime ? Under
clouds of ashes, cinders, mud, lava, three of those
happy cities — Herculaneum, Pompeii, Stabiae — were
buried at once. They were buried just as the peo-
pie had fled from them, leaving the" furniture and 25
the earthenware, often even jewels and gold behind,
and here and there a human being who had not had

129

time to escape from the dreadful rain of ashes and
dust.

Tlie ruins of Herculaneum and Pompeii have been
dug into since, and partly uncovered ; and the paint-

5 ings, especially in Pompeii, are found upon the walls
still fresh, preserved from the air by the ashes which
have covered them in. At Naples there is a famous
museum containing the curiosities which have been
dug out of the ruined cities ; and one can walk along

10 the streets in Pompeii and see the wheel tracks in
the pavement along which carts and chariots rolled
two thousand years ago.

And what had become of Vesuvius, the treacher-
ous mountain ? Half, or more than half, of the side

15 of the old crater had been blown away ; and what
was left, which is now called the Monte Somma,
stands in a half circle round the new cone and the
new crater which is burning at this very day. True,
after that eruption which killed Pliny, Vesuvius fell

20 asleep again, and did not awake for one hundred and
thirty-four years, and then again for two hundred
and sixty-nine years ; but it has been growing more
and more restless as the ages have passed on, and
now hardly a year passes without its sending out

2j smoke and stones from its crater, and streams of
lava from its sides.

— From " Madam How and Lady Why,^ hy Charles Kingsley.

9CH. READ, V, — 9

II. KOMANCE,

Tlie most popular historical romance
n tlie English language is "The Last
Days of Pompeii," by Sir Edward
Bulwer Lytton. It was first pub-
lished in 1834, and is a narrar 5
tive depicting life and man-
ners during the last years of
the doomed city. The descrip-
tion of the grand catastrophe
is a subject which called forth id
all the brilliant powers of the
Bi.Edw«dMw.rLytt«». author. As a piece of word-

painting it has seldom been surpassed.

The cloud which had scattered so deep a murki-
ness over the day had now settled into a solid and is
impenetrable mass. But in proportion as the black-
ness gathered, did the lightnings around Vesuvius
increase in their vivid and scorching glare. Nor was
their horrible beauty confined to the usual hues of
fire ; no rainbow ever rivaled their varying and prodi- 30
gal dyes. Now brightly blue as the most azure depths
of a southern sky, — now of a livid and snake-like
green, darting restlessly to and fro as the folds of an
enormous serpent, — now of a lurid and intolerable
crimson, gushing forth through the columns oE"

131

smokej far. and wide, and lighting up the whole

city from arch to arch — then suddenly dying into

a sickly paleness, like the ghost of their own life !

In the pauses of the showers you heard the

5 rumbling of the earth beneath, and the groaning
waves of the tortured sea ; or, lower still, and
audible but to the watch of in tensest fear, the
grinding and hissing murmur of the escaping gases
through the chasms of the distant mountain. Some-

10 times the cloud appeared to break from its solid
mass, and, by the lightning to assume quaint and
vast mimicries of human or of monster shapes,
striding across the gloom, hurtling one upon the
other, and vanishing swiftly into the abyss of shade ;

15 so that, to the eyes and fancies of the affrighted

wanderers, the vapors seemed like the bodily forms

of gigantic foes — the agents of terror and of death.

The ashes in many places were already knee-deep ;

and the boiling showers which came from the steam-

20 ing breath of the volcano forced their way into the
houses, bearing with them a strong and suffocating
vapor. In some places, immense fragments of rock,
hurled upon the house roofs, bore down along the
streets masses of confused ruin, yet more and more,

25 with every hour, obstructed the way ; and as the
day advanced, the motion of the earth was more
sensibly felt — the footing seemed to slide and creep

i
}'

,-■-^^■^7, -

133

— nor could chariot or litter be kept steady even on
the most level ground.

Sometimes the huger stones, striking against each
other as they fell, broke into countless fragments,

5 emitting sparks of fire, which caught whatever was
combustible within their reach ; and along the plains
beyond the city the darkness was now terribly re-
lieved, for several houses and even vineyards had
been set on flames; and at various intervals the

10 fires rose sullenly and fiercely against the solid
gloom. To add to this partial relief of the dark-
ness, the citizens had, here and there, in the more
public places, such as the porticoes of temples and
the entrances to the forum, endeavored to place

15 rows of torches; but these rarely continued long;
the showers and the winds extinguished them, and
the sudden darkness into which their sudden birth
was converted had something in it doubly terrible
and doubly impressing on the impotence of human

20 hopes, the lesson of despair.

Frequently, by the momentary light of these
torches, parties of fugitives encountered each other,
some hurrying towards the sea, others flying from
the sea back to the land. The whole ^ elements of

26 civilization were broken up. Ever and anon, by
the flickering lights, you saw the thief hastening
by the most solemn authorities of the law, laden

134

with the produce of his sudden gains. If, in the
darkness, wife was separated from husband, or par-
ent from child, vain was the hope of reunion. Each
hurried blindly and confusedly on. Nothing in all
the various and complicated machinery of social life s
was left save the primal law of self-preservation.

Through this awful scene did Glaucus wade his
way, accompanied by lone and the blind girl. Sud-
denly, a rush of hundreds, in their path to the sea,
swept by them. Nydia was torn from the side of lo
Glaucus, who with lone was borne rapidly onward ;
and when the crowd (whose forms they saw not, so
thick was the gloom) were gone, Nydia was still sepa-
rated from their side. Glaucus shouted her name.
No answer came. They retraced their steps, — inis
vain : they could not discover her, — it was evident
she had been swept along some other direction by
the human current. Their friend, their preserver
was lost ! And hitherto Nydia had been their guide.
Her blindness rendered the scene familiar to her 20
alone. Accustomed, through a perpetual night, to
thread the windings of the city, she had led them un-
erringly towards the seashore, by which they had re-
solved to hazard an escape. Now, which way could
they wend ? All was rayless to them — a maze with-
out a clue. Wearied, despondent, bewildered, they,
however, passed along, the ashes falling upon their^

136

heads, the fragmentary stones dashing up in sparkles
before their feet.

Advancing, as men grope for escape in a dungeon,
they continued their uncertain way. At the mo-

5 ments when the volcanic lightnings lingered over
the streets, they were enabled, by that awful light,
to steer and guide their progress : yet, little did the
view it presented to them cheer or encourage their
path. In parts where the ashes lay dry and un-

10 mixed with the boiling torrents, cast upward from
the mountain at capricious intervals, the surface of
the earth presented a leprous and ghastly white.
In other places, cinder and rock lay matted in
heaps.

15 The groans of the dying were broken by wild
shrieks of women's terror — now near, now distant
— which, when heard in the utter darkness, were
rendered doubly appalling by the sense of helpless-
ness and the uncertainty of the perils around ; and

20 clear and distinct through all were the mighty and
various noises from the Fatal Mountain ; its rushing
winds ; its whirling torrents ; and, from time to
time, the burst and roar of some more fiery and
fierce explosion.

25 Suddenly the place became lighted with an intense
and lurid glow. Bright and gigantic through the
darkness, which closed around it like the walls of

136

hell, the mountain shone — a pile of fire. Its sum-
mit seemed riven in two ; or rather, above its sur-
face there seemed to rise two monster shapes, each
confronting each, as Demons contending for a World.
These were of one deep blood-red hue of fire, which 5
lighted up the whole atmosphere far and wide ; but
below, the nether part of the mountain was still dark
and shrouded, save in three places, adown which
flowed, serpentine and irregular, rivers of the molten
lava. Darkly red through the profound gloom of 10
their banks, they flowed slowly on, as towards the
devoted city. Over the broadest there seemed to
spring a cragged and stupendous arch, from which,
as from the jaws of hell, gushed the sources of the
stupendous Phlegethon. And through the stilled air 15
was heard the rattling of the fragments of rock,
hurling one upon another as they were borne down
the fiery cataracts — darkening, for one instant, the
spot where they fell, and suffused the next in the
burnished hues of the flood along which they floated. 20

Glaucus turned in awe, caught lone in his arms,
and fled along the street, that was now intensely
luminous. But suddenly a duller shade fell over the
air. Instinctively he turned to the mountain, and
behold ! one of the two gigantic crests, into which
the summit had been divided, rocked and wavered to
and fro ; and then, with a sound, the mightiness a

137

which no language can describe, it fell from its
burning base, and rushed, an avalanche of fire, down
the sides of the mountain. At the same instant
gushed forth a volume of blackest smoke — rolling

5 on, over air, sea, and earth.

Another — and another — and another shower of
ashes, far more profuse than before, scattered fresh
desolation along the streets. Darkness once more
wrapped them as a veil ; and Glaucus, his bold heart

10 at last quelled and despairing, sank beneath the
cover of an arch, and, clasping lone to his heart,
resigned himself to die.

Meanwhile Nydia, when separated by the throng
from Glaucus and lone, had in vain endeavored to

15 regain them. In vain she raised that plaintive cry
so peculiar to the blind; it was lost amidst a thou-
sand shrieks of more selfish terror. Again and again
she returned to the spot where they had been divided
— to find her companions gone, to seize every f ugi-

20 tive — to inquire of Glaucus — to be dashed aside
in the impatience of distraction. Who in that hour
spared one thought to his neighbor ?

At length it occurred to Nydia that, as it had been
resolved to seek the seashore for escape, her most

^ probable chance of rejoining her companions would
})e to persevere in that direction. Guiding her steps,
then, by the staff which she always carried, she con-

138

tinued to avoid the masses of ruin which incumbered
the path, and to take the nearest direction to the
seaside.

She had gone some distance toward the seashore,
when she chanced to hear from one of the fugitives 5
that Glaucus was resting beneath the arch of the
forum. She at once turned her back on the sea,
and retraced her steps to the city. She gained the
forum — the arch; she stooped down — she felt
around — she called on the name of Glaucus. 10

A weak voice answered, ^' Who calls on me ? Is
it the voice of the Shades ? Lo ! I am prepared ! "

" Arise ! follow me ! Take my hand ! Glaucus,
thou shalt be saved ! "

In wonder and sudden hope, Glaucus arose. 15
" Nydia still ! Ah ! thou, then, art safe ! "

The tender joy of his voice pierced the heart of
the poor Thessalian, and she blessed him for his
thought of her.

Half-leading, half-carrying lone, Glaucus followed 20
his guide. After many pauses they gained the sea,
and joined a group, who, bolder than the rest, re-
solved to hazard any peril rather than continue in
such a scene. In darkness they put forth to sea;
but, as they cleared the land and caught new aspects 25
of the mountain, its channels of molten fire threw a
partial redness over the waves.

139

Utterly exhausted and worn out, lone slept on the
breast of Glaucus, and Nydia lay at his feet. Mean-
while the showers of dust and ashes, still borne aloft,
fell into the wave, and scattered their snows over

6 the deck. Far and wide, borne by the winds, those
showers descended upon the remotest climes, star-
tling even the swarthy African, and whirled along
the antique soil of Syria and Egypt.

And meekly, softly, beautifully dawned at last

10 the light over the trembling deep, — the winds were
sinking into rest, — the foam died from the glowing
azure of that delicious sea. Around the east, their
mists caught gradually the rosy hues that heralded
the morning. Light was about to resume her reign.

16 Yet, still, dark, and massive in the distance lay the
broken fragments of the destroying cloud, from
which red streaks, burning more and more dimly,
betraj^ed the yet rolling fires of the mountain of the
" Scorched Fields." The white walls and gleaming

20 columns that had adorned the lovely coasts were no
more. Sullen and dull were the shores so lately
crested by the cities of Herculaneum and Pompeii.
The darlings of the Deep were snatched from her
embrace. Century after century shall the mighty

25 Mother stretch forth her azure arms, and know
them not — moaning round the sepulchers of the
Lost !

THE STRANGER ON THE SILL.

Between broad fields of wheat and com
Is the lowly home where I was born ;
The peach tree leans against the wall,
And the woodbine wanders over all ;
There is the shaded doorway still,
But a stranger's foot has crossed the sill.

There is the barn — and, as of yore,

I can smell the hay from the open door,

And see the busy swallows throng,

And hear the pewee's mournful song ;

But the stranger comes — oh ! painful proof -

His sheaves are piled to the heated roof.

141

There is the orchard — the very trees
Where my childhood knew long hours of ease,
And watched the shadowy moments run
Till my life imbibed more shade than sun ;
The swing from the bough still sweeps the air,
But the stranger's children are swinging there.

Oh, ye who daily cross the sill.

Step lightly, for I love it still ;

And when you crowd the old barn eaves,

Then think what countless harvest sheaves

Have passed within that scented door

To gladden eyes that are no more.

Deal kindly with these orchard trees ;
And when your children crowd their knees
Their sweetest fruit they shall impart.
As if old memories stirred their heart;
To youthful sport still leave the swing.
And in sweet reverence hold the spring.

The barn, the trees, the brook, the birds.

The meadows with their lowing herds.

The woodbine on the cottage wall —

My heart still lingers with them all.

Ye strangers on my native sill.

Step lightly, for I love it still.

— Thomas Buchanan Read,

142

OUR COUNTRY.

Sweet clime of my kindred, blest land of my birth !
The fairest, the dearest, the brightest on earth !
Where'er I may roam — howe'er blest I may be.
My spirit instinctively turns unto thee !

I. WHAT IS OUR COUNTRY?

We cannot honor our country with too deep a
reverence ; we cannot love her with an affection too
pure and fervent; we cannot serve her with an
energy of purpose or a faithfulness of zeal too
steadfast and ardent. And what is our country? 5
It is not the East, with her hills and her valleys,
with her countless sails, and the rocky ramparts of
her shores. It is not the North, with her thousand
villages and her harvest home, with her frontiers of
the lakes and the ocean. It is not the West, with lo
her forest sea and her inland isles, with her luxuriant
expanses, clothed in the verdant corn ; with her
beautiful Ohio and her verdant Missouri. Nor is it
yet the South, opulent in the mimic snow of the
cotton, in the rich plantations of the rustling cane, i5
and in the golden robes of the rice field. What are
these hut the sister families of one greater ^ better y holier
family, our country ?

— Thomas Ghrimke.

143

II. LIBERTY AND UNION.

I profess, sir, in my career hitherto, to have kept
steadily in view the prosperity and the honor of the
»vhole country, and the preservation of the Federal
Jnion. I have not allowed myself to look beyond
he Union, to see what might lie hidden in the dark
•ecess behind ; I have not coolly weighed the chances
)f preserving liberty, when the bonds that unite us
ogether shall be broken asunder ; I have not accus-
omed myself to hang over the precipice of disunion,
o see whether, with my short sight, I can fathom
ilie depths of the abyss below; nor could I regard
aim as a safe counselor in the affairs of this govern-
ment, whose thoughts should be mainly bent on
considering, not how the Union should be preserved,
but how tolerable might be the condition of the
People when it shall be broken up and destroyed.

While the Union lasts we have high, exciting,
;ratifying prospects spread out before us, for us
tid our children. Beyond that, I seek not to
enetrate the veil. God grant that in my day, at
^ast, that curtain may not rise ! God grant that on
ay vision never may be opened what lies behind !

When my eyes shall be turned to behold, for the
^st time, the sun in heaven, may I not see him shin-
tig on the broken and dishonored fragments of a
►nee glorious Union ; on States dissevered, discordant.

144

belligerent ; on a land rent with civil feuds, or
drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood. Let their
last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the
gorgeous ensign of the Republic, now known and
honored throughout the earth, still full high ad- s
vanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their
original luster, not a stripe erased or polluted, nor
a single star obscured ; bearing for its motto no such
miserable interrogatory as, "What is all this worth?"
nor those other words of delusion and folly, " Liberty lo
first, and Union afterwards " ; but everywhere spread
all over in characters of living light, blazing on all its
ample folds as they float over the sea, and over the
land, and in every wind under the whole heavens,
that other sentiment, dear to every true Americans
heart, " Liberty and Union, now and forever, one
and inseparable."

III. OUR SACRED OBLIGATIONS.

Let the sacred obligations which have devolved on
this generation, and on us, sink deep into our hearts.
Those are daily dropping from among us who estab- 20
lished our liberty and our government. The great
trust now descends to new hands.

We can win no laurels in a war for independence.
Earlier and worthier hands have gathered them all.
Nor are there places for us by the side of Solon, and 23

146

Alfred, and other founders of states. Our fathers
have filled them. But there remains to us a great
duty of defense and preservation ; and there is
opened to us, also, a noble pursuit, to which the

5 spirit of the times strongly invites us. Our proper
business is improvement. Let our age be the age
of improvement.

In a day of peace, let us advance the arts of peace
and the works of peace. Let us develop the re-

10 sources of our land, call forth its powers, build up

its institutions, promote all its great interests, and

see whether we, also, in our day and generation, may

not perform something worthy to be remembered.

Let us cultivate a true spirit of union and harmony.

15 In pursuing the great objects which our condition
points out to us, let us act under a settled conviction,
and an habitual feeling, that these twenty-four states
are one country. Let our conceptions be enlarged to
the circle of our duties. Let us extend our ideas

20 over the whole of the vast field in which we are
called to act. Let our object be, our country, our
whole country, and nothing but our country. And,
by the blessing of God, may that country itself
become a vast and splendid monument, not of op-

25 pression and terror, but of wisdom, of peace, and
of liberty, upon which the world may gaze with
admiration forever. —Daniel Webster,

8CH. READ. V. — 10

A LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW.

" The Sketch Book " is a collection of short tales,
sketches, and essays, written by Washington Irving,
,^, and published in 1820. Most of the

sketches are descriptive of English
manners and scenery, but the popu- j
larity of the book in this country
is chiefly due to tw^o '-veil-
known stories of Amevican
life, "Rip Van Winkle" and
"A Legend of Sleepy Hollow." lo
The scenes of both stories are
located in the valley of the
Hudson River, not far from
wuhiigton irriij New York. They are most

picturesquely told, and rank high among the best i5
productions of their kind in American literature.
Here is the " Legend of Sleepy Hollow," which we
have abridged in order to adapt it to the readers of
this volume : —

r. THE SCHOOLMASTER.

In a remote period of American history, there so
lived in Sleepy Hollow a worthy man whose name
was Ichabod Crane. He sojourned, or, as he ex-
pressed it, '* tarried " in that quiet little valley for
the purpose of instructing the children of the vicin-

147

ity . He was a native of Connecticut. He was tall,
but very lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and
legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves,
and feet that might have served as shovels. His

5 head was small, with huge ears, large glassy eyes,
and a long snipe nose. To see him striding along
the Crest of a hill on a windy day, with his ill-fitting
clothes fluttering about him, one might have mistaken
him for some scarecrow escaped from a cornfield.

10 His schoolhouse was a low building of one large
room, rudely built of logs. It stood in a rather
lonely but pleasant place, just at the foot of a woody
hill, with a brook running close by, and a birch tree
growing near one end of it. From this place of

16 learning the low murmur of children's voices, con-
ning over their lessons, might be heard on a drowsy
summer day like the hum of a beehive. Now and
then this was interrupted by the stern voice of the
master, or perhaps by the appalling sound of a birch

20 twig, as some loiterer was urged along the flowery
path of knowledge.

When school hours were over, the teacher forgot
that he was the master, and was even the companion
and playmate of the older boys; and on holiday

25 afternoons, he liked to go home with some of the
smaller ones who happened to have pretty sisters, or
mothers noted for their skill in cooking. Indeed, it

148

was a wise thing for him to keep on good terms with
his pupils. He earned so little by teaching school,
that he would scarcely have had enough to eat, had
he not, according to country custom, boarded at the
houses of the children whom he instructed. With »
these he lived, by turns, a week at a time,
thus going the rounds of the neighbor-
hood, with all his worldly goods tied
up in a cotton handkerchief.

He had many wa3's of u

making himself both useful

and agreeable. He helped

the farmers in the lighter

labors of their farms, raked

the hay at harvest time, u

- - . mended the fences, took

llAl^Mng^gg^^lV'' the horses to water, drove

^'"^IP^PmI^ the cows from pasture, and

* cut wood for the winter

lobaliod OtiM.

fire. He found favor in a
the eyes of the mothers by petting the children, par-
ticularly the youngest ; and he would often sit with
a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot
for whole hours together.

He was a man of some importance among the 25
women of the neighborhood, being looked upon as a
kind of idle, gentlemanlike personage of finer tastes

149

and better manners than the rough young men who
had been brought up in the country. He was always
welcome at the tea table of a farmhouse ; and his
presence was almost sure to bring out an extra dish

5 of cakes or sweetmeats, or the parade of a silver tea-
pot. He was happy, too, in the smiles of all the
young ladies. He would walk with them in the
churchyard, between services on Sundays ; gathering
grapes for them from the wild vines that overrun

10 the surrounding trees ; or sauntering with a whole

bevy of them along the banks of the adjacent mill

pond; while the bashful country youngsters hung

sheepishly back and hated him for his fine manners.

Another of his sources of pleasure was to pass long

16 winter evenings with the wives of the Dutch farm-
ers, as they sat spinning by the fire with a long row
of apples roasting and sputtering along the hearth.
He listened to their wondrous tales of ghosts and
goblins, and haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and

20 haunted bridges, and haunted houses, and particu-
larly of the headless horseman, or " Galloping Hes-
sian of the Hollow," as they sometimes called him.
And then he would entertain them with stories of
witchcraft, and would frighten them with woeful

25 speculations about comets and shooting stars, and by
telling them that the world did really turn round,
and that they were half the time topsy-turvy.

150

There was pleasure in all this while snugly cud-
dling in the chimney corner of a room that was
lighted by the ruddy glow from a crackling wood
fire, and where no ghost dared show its face ; but it
was a pleasure dearly bought by the terrors which 5
would beset him during his walk homewards. How
fearful were the shapes and shadows that fell across
his way in the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy
night ! How often was he appalled by some shrub
covered with snow, which, like a sheeted specter, lo
beset his very path ! How often did he shrink with
curdling awe at the sound of his own steps on the
frosty crust beneath his feet, and dread to look over
his shoulder lest he should behold some uncouth
being tramping close behind him! and how often i5
was he throAvn into complete dismay by some rush-
ing blast, howling among the trees, in the idea that
it was the Galloping Hessian on one of his nightly
scourings !

II. THE INVITATION.

On a fine autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive 20
mood, sat enthroned on the lofty stool from whence
he watched the doings of his little school. In his
hand he held a ferule, that scepter of despotic
power; the birch of justice reposed on three nails
behind the stool, a constant terror to evil doers; 25
while on the desk were sundry contraband articles

161

taken from idle urchins, such as half-eaten apples,
popguns, whirligigs, and fly cages. His scholars
were all busily intent upon their books, or slyly
whispering behind them with one eye kept upon

5 the master, and a kind of buzzing stillness reigned
throughout the schoolroom.

This stillness was suddenly interrupted by the ap-
pearance of a negro, in tow-cloth jacket and trowsers,
who, mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half-

10 broken colt, came clattering up to the schoolhouse
door. He brought an invitation to Ichabod to attend
a merrymaking, or " quilting frolic," to be held that
evening at the house of Mynheer Van Tassel ; and
having delivered his message, he dashed over the

15 brook, and was seen scampering away up the hollow,
full of the importance and hurry of his mission.

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet
schoolroom. The scholars were hurried through
their lessons. Those who were nimble skipped over

20 half without being noticed ; and those who were slow
were hurried along by a smart application of the rod.
Then books were flung aside without being put away
on the shelves ; inkstands were overturned, benches
thrown down ; and the whole school was turned

25 loose an hour before the usual time, the children
yelping and racketing about the green, in joy at
their early freedom.

152

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra
half hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing his
best and only suit of rusty black, and arranging his
looks by a bit of broken looking-glass that hung up
in the schoolhouse. That he might make his appear- 5
ance at the party in the true style of a cavalier,
he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom
he was boarding, and, thus gallantly mounted, rode
forth, like a knight-errant in quest of adventures.
The animal he bestrode was a broken-down plow lo
horse, that had outlived almost everything but his
viciousness. He was gaunt and shagged, with a
slender neck, and a head like a hammer. His mane
and tail were tangled and knotted with burs. One
eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral, is
but the other still gleamed with genuine wickedness.
He must have had plenty of fire and mettle in his
day, if we may judge from his name, which was
Gunpowder.

Ichabod was a rider suited for such a steed. He 20
rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees
nearly up to the pommel of the saddle ; his elbows
stuck out like a grasshopper's; and as the horse
jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike
the flapping of a pair of wings. A small wool hat 25
rested on the top of his nose, for so his scanty strip
of forehead might be called; and the skirts of his

158

black coat fluttered out almost to the horse'3 tail.
Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his steed
as they shambled along the ,

highway; and it was alto-
gether auch an apparition
as is seldom to be met with
in broad daylight.

It was, as I have said, a
fine autumnal day. The

isky was clear and serene.
The forests had put on
their sober brown and yel-
low, while some trees of
the tenderer kind had been

i nipped by the frost into
brilliant dyes of orange,
purple, and scarlet. Stream-
ing files of wild ducks be-
gan to make their appearance high in the air. The

t bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves
of beech and hickory, and the pensive whistle of the
quail at intervals from the neighboring stubblefielda.
The small birds fluttered, chirping and frolicking
from bush to bush, and tree to tree, gay and happy

s because of the plenty and variety around them.
There were the twittering blackbirds, flying in sable
clouds; and the golden-winged woodpecker, with his

Iclikbod ud Oimpowdar.

154

crimson crest and splendid plumage; and the cedar
bird, with its red-tipped wings and yellow-tipped
tail; and the blue jay, in his gay, light-blue coat
and white underclothes, screaming and chattering, ,
nodding and bowing, and pretending to be on good 5
terms with every songster of the grove.

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye
ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly au-
tumn. On all sides he beheld vast store of apples,
— some still hanging on the trees, some gathered 10
into baskets and barrels for the market, others
heaped up in rich piles for the cider press. Farther
on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its
golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and
holding out the promise of cakes and hasty pudding. 15
There, too, were multitudes of yellow pumpkins
turning up their yellow sides to the sun, and giving
ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies. And
anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, breath-
ing the odor of the beehive; and as he beheld them, 20
he dreamed of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and
garnished with honey, by the delicate little dimpled
hand of Katrina, the daughter of Mynheer Van
Tassel.

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts 25
and " sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the
sides of a range of hills which look out upon some

165

of the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The
sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down into the
west. A few amber clouds floated in the sky, with-
out a breath of air to move them. The horizon was

5 of a fine, golden tint, changing gradually into a pure
apple-green, and from that into the deep-blue of the
midheaven. A slanting ray lingered on the woody
crests of the precipices that overhung some parts of
the river, giving greater depth to the dark gray and

10 purple of their rocky sides.

III. THE "QUILTING FROLIC."

It was toward evening when Ichabod arrived at
the castle of the Herr Van Tassel. He found it
thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent
country, — old farmers, in homespun coats and

16 breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnifi-
cent pewter buckles; their brisk little dames, in
close-crimped caps, long-waisted gowns, homespun
petticoats, wath scissors and pincushions, and gay
calico pockets hanging on the outside ; buxom lasses,

20 almost as antiquated as their mothers, excepting
where a straw hat, a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white
frock, showed signs of city innovations; the sons,
in short, square-skirted coats with rows of huge brass
buttons, and their hair generally queued in the fashion

25 of the times, especially if an eel-skin could be had

156

for that purpose, it being esteemed as a potent nour-
isher and strengthener of the hair.

What a world of charms burst upon the gaze of
my hero, as he entered the state parlor of Van
Tassel's mansion — the ample charms of a Dutch 5
country tea table, in the sumptuous time of autumn !
Such heaped-up platters of cakes, of various and in-
describable kinds, known only to experienced Dutch
housewives ! There was the doughty doughnut, and
the crisp, crumbling cruller ; sweet cakes and short 10
cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole
family of cakes ; and then there were apple pies, and
peach pies, and pumpkin pies; and slices of ham
and smoked beef; and dishes of preserved plums,
and peaches, and pears, and quinces; not to men- 15
tion broiled shad and roasted chickens, together
with bowls of milk and cream; all mingled, hig-
gledy-piggledy, — with the motherly teapot sending
up its clouds of vapor from the midst! I want
breath and time to describe this banquet as I ought, 20
and am too eager to get on with my story. Hap-
pily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry,
but did ample justice to every dainty.

And now, supper being ended, the sound of music
from the common room summoned to the dance. 25
The musician was an old, gray-headed negro, who
had been the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood

167

for more than half a century. His instrument was
as old and battered as himself. The greater part of
the time he scraped away on two or three strings,
moving his head with every movement of the bow,

5 and stamping his foot whenever a fresh couple were
to start.

Ichabod prided himself on his dancing. Not a
limb, not a fiber about him was idle. How could
the flogger of urchins be otherwise than animated

10 and joyous? And pretty Katrina Van Tassel, the
lady of his heart, was his partner in the dance, smil-
ing graciously in reply to all his gallant remarks.
When the dance was over, Ichabod joined »> circle
of the older folks, who, with Mynheer Van Tassel,

16 sat smoking at one end of the piazza, and told
stories of the war and wild and wonderful legends
of ghosts and other supernatural beings. Some
mention was made of a woman in white that
haunted the dark glen at Raven Rock, and was

20 often heard to shriek on wintry nights before a
storm, having perished there in the snow. The
chief part of the stories, however, turned upon
the favorite specter of Sleepy Hollow, the head-
less horseman, who had been heard several times

25 of late, patrolling the country. One man told how
he had once met the horseman returning from a
foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get

158

up behind him ; how they galloped over bush and
brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the
bridge by the church, when the horseman suddenly
turned into a skeleton, threw him into the brook,
and sprang away over the treetops with a clap of 6
thimder, A wild, roystering young man, who was
called Brom Bones, declared that the headless
horseman was, after all, no rider compared with
himself. He said that returning
one night from the neighboring lo
village of Sing Sing, he had been
overtaken by this midnight trooper ;
that he had offered to race with
him for a bowl of punch, and
would have won it, too, but just as is
they came to the church bridge,
the specter bolted and vanished in
a flash of fire.

The party now gradually broke
up. The old farmers gathered 20
together their families in their
wagons, and were heard for some
time rattling along the hollow
roads, and over the distant hills.
Some of the damsels mounted on pillions behind as
their favorite swains ; and their light-hearted laugh-
ter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along

Eatrina Tut iMleL

159

the silent woodlands, growing fainter and fainter
till they gradually died away, and the late scene
of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted.
Ichabod alone lingered behind, to have a parting
5 word with the pretty Katrina. What he said to
her, and what was her reply, I do not know. Some-
thing, however, must have gone wrong ; for he sal-
lied forth, after no great length of time, with an air
quite desolate and chopf alien.

IV. THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN.

10 It was the very witching time of night that Icha-
bod pursued his travel homewards. In the dead
hush of midnight he could hear the barking of a
dog on the opposite shore of the Hudson, but it was
so vague and faint as only to give an idea of the

15 distance between them. No signs of life occurred
near, but now and then the chirp of a cricket, or
perhaps the guttural twang of a bullfrog from a
neighboring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably,
and turning suddenly in his bed.

20 All the stories that Ichabod had heard about
ghosts and goblins, now came crowding into his
mind. The night grew darker and darker. The
stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driv-
ing clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He

25 had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, more-

160

over, approaching the very place where many of the
scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the
center of the road stood an enormous tulip tree,
which towered like a giant above all the other trees
of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark. 6
Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large as the
trunks of ordinary trees, twisting down almost to
the ground, and rising again into the air.

As Ichabod approached this tree, he began to
whistle. He thought his whistle was answered : it lo
was but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry
branches. Coming a little nearer, he thought he
saw something white hanging in the midst of the
tree. He paused, and ceased whistling, but, on look-
ing more narrowly, perceived that it was a place is
where the tree had been struck by lightning, and
the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a
groan. His teeth chattered, and his knees smote,
against the saddle. It was but the rubbing of one
huge bough upon another, as they were swayed about 20
by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new
perils lay before him.

About two hundred yards from the tree a small
brook crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and
thickly wooded glen. A few rough logs laid side by 25
side served for a bridge over this stream. To pass
tliis bridge was the severest trial; for it was here

161

that the unfortunate Andre had been captured, and
under covert of the thicket of chestnuts and vines
by the side of the road, had the sturdy yeomen, who
surprised him, lain concealed. The stream has ever
6 since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful
are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass
it alone after dark.

As Ichabod approached the stream his heart began
to thump. He gave his horse half a score of kicks
10 in the ribs, and tried to dash briskly across the
bridge; but instead of starting forward, the per-
verse old animal made a lateral movement, and ran
broadside against the fence. Ichabod jerked the rein
on the other side, and kicked lustily with the con-
is trary foot. It was all in vain. His steed started,
it is true, but it was only to plunge to the opposite
side of the road into a thicket of brambles. The
schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel upon
the ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward but
20 came to a stand just by the bridge with a sudden-
ness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over
his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by
the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of
Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the trees, he beheld
25 something huge, black, and towering. It stirred
not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some
gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveler.

8CH. READ. V. — 11

162

The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his
head with terror. What was to be done? Sum-
moning up a show of courage, he called out in stam-
mering accents, "Who are you?" He received no
reply. He repeated his demand in a still more s
agitated voice. Still there was no answer. Once
more he cudgeled the sides of Gunpowder, and, shut-
ting his eyes, broke forth into a psalm tune. Just
then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in
motion, and, with a scramble and a bound, stood lo
at once in the middle of the road. Though the
night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the
unknown might now in some degree be ascertained.
He appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions,
and mounted on a horse of powerful frame. He i5
made no offer of molestation or sociability, but kept
aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the
blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over
his fright and waywardness.

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange mid- 20
night companion, and bethought himself of the ad-
venture of Brom Bones and the headless horseman,
now quickened his steed, in hopes of leaving him
behind. The stranger, however, quickened his horse
to an equal pace. Ichabod drew up, and fell into 26
a walk, thinking to lag behind; the other did the
same. His heart began to sink within him. There

163

was something in the moody and dogged silence of
his companion that was mysterious and appalling.
It was soon fearfully accounted for.

On mounting a rising ground, which brought the

5 figure of his fellow-traveler in relief against the sky,
Ichabod was horror-struck on perceiving that he was
headless ; but his horror was still more increased on
observing that the head, which should have rested
on his shoulders, was carried before him on the pom-

lomel of his saddle. His terror rose to desperation.
He rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gun-
powder, hoping, by a sudden movement, to give
his companion the slip ; but the specter started full
jump with him. Away then they dashed, through

15 thick and thin ; stones flying, and sparks flashing, at

every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in

the air, as he stretched his long, lank body away

over his horse's head, in the eagerness of his flight.

They had now reached the road which turns off

20 to Sleepy Hollow ; but Gunpowder, who seemed pos-
sessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made
an opposite turn, and plunged headlong down hill to
the left. This road leads through a sandy hollow,
shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile,

25 where it crosses the bridge famous in goblin story ;
and just beyond swells the green knoll on which
stands the whitewashed church.

164

Just as he had got haKway through the hollow, the
girths of the saddle gave way, and Ichabod felt it
slipping from under him. He seized it by the pom-
mel, and tried to hold it firm, but in vain. He had
just time to save himself by clasping Gunpowder 5
round the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth,
and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer.
For a moment the terror of its owner's wrath passed
across his mind, for it was his Sunday saddle ; but
this was no time for petty fears. He had much 10
ado to keep his seat, sometimes slipping on one
side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted
on the high ridge of his horse's backbone with a
violence that was far from pleasant.

An opening in the trees now cheered him with 15
the hope that the church bridge was at hand. " If
I can but reach that bridge," thought Ichabod, " I
am safe." Just then he heard the black steed pant-
ing and blowing close behind him. He even fancied
that he felt his hot breath. Another kick in the 20
ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge;
he thundered over the resounding planks ; he gained
the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a look
behind to see if his pursuer should vanish in a
flash of fire and brimstone. Just then he saw the 26
goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act
of hurling his head at him. Ichabod tried to dodge

166

the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his
cranium with a tremendous crash. He was tumbled
headlong into the dust ; and Gunpowder, the black
steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a whirlwind.

6 The next morning the old horse was found without
his saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly
cropping the grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did
not make his appearance at breakfast. Dinner hour
came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the

10 schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of the
brook; but i;io schoolmaster. An inquiry was set
on foot, and after much investigation they came
upon his traces. In one part of the road by the
church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt.

15 The tracks of horses' hoofs deeply dented in the road,
and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the
bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part
of the brook, where the water ran deep and black,
was found the hat of the unfortunate -Ichabod, and

20 close beside it a shattered pumpkin. The brook was
searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was not
to be discovered.

As Ichabod was a bachelor, and in nobody's debt,
nobody troubled his head any more about him. It

25 is true, an old farmer, who went down to New
York on a visit several years after, brought home the
intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive ; that

166

he had left the neighborhood, partly through fear of
the goblin and the farmer whose horse he had ridden,
and partly for other reasons ; that he had changed
his quarters to a distant part of the country, had
kept school and studied law at the same time, had 5
written for the newspapers, and finally had been
made a justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom
Bones, too, who, shortly after the schoolmaster's
disappearance, had married the blooming Katrina
Van Tassel, was observed to look very knowing 10
whenever the story of Ichabod was related, and
always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention
of the pumpkin, which led some to suppose that he
knew more about the matter than he chose to tell.

-•o^Ko^

THE MARINER'S DREAM.

In slumbers pf midnight the sailor boy lay ;

His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind ;
But, watchworn and weary, his cares flew away.

And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.

He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers.
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn ;

While Memory stood sideways, half covered with
flowers.
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.

167

Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide,
And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise :

Now far, far behind him the green waters glide,
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.

The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch.
And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the
wall;

All trembling with transport, he raises the latch.
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight ;

His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear ;
And the lips of the boy in a love kiss unite

With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds
dear.

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast ;

Joy quickens his pulses — all hardships seem o'er,
And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest :

" God ! thou hast blessed me ; I ask for no

more."

Ah ! what is that flame which now bursts on his eye ?

Ah ! what is that sound which now 'larums his ear ?

'Tis the lightning's red gleam, painting death in the

sky!

'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the

sphere !

168

He springs from his hammock — he flies to the deck !

Amazement confronts him with images dire ;
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck ;

The masts fly in splinters; the shrouds are on
fire !

Like mountains the billows tremendously swell ;

In vain the lost wretch calls on Mercy to save;
Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,

And the death angel flaps his broad wing o'er the
wave !

sailor boy, woe to thy dream of delight !

In darkness dissolves the gay frost work of bliss.
Where now is the picture that Fancy touched
bright —
Thy parents' fond pressure, and Love's honeyed
kiss?

sailor boy ! sailor boy ! never again

Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay ;

Unblessed, and unhonored, down deep in the main
Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay.

Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away,
And still the viist waters above thee shall roll ;

Kart h loses thy pattern for ever and aye : —
sailor boy ! si\ilor boy ! peace to thy soul !

— WlUiam Dimand,

169

THE SANDS O' DEE.

" Mary, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home.
And call the cattle home,
Across the sands o' Dee ! "
The western wind was wild and dank with foam,
And all alone went she.

The creeping tide came up along the sand.
And o'er and o'er the sand,
And round and round the sand,
As far as eye could see.
The rolling mist came down and hid the land —
And never home came she.

" Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair —
A tress of golden hair,
A drowned maiden's hair,
Above the nets at sea?"
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair
Among the stakes on Dee.

They brought her in across the rolling foam.
The cruel crawling foam.
The cruel hungry foam.
To her grave beside the sea.
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home.
Across the sands o' Dee. —Charles Kingsley.

170
THE INVENTION OF PRINTING.

I. BLOCK BOOKS.

Six hundred years ago every book was written by
hand; for the art of printing was then unknown.
If there were pictures, they were drawn with a pen
or painted with a brush. It required a great deal
of labor and time to make a book ; and when it was s
finished, it was so costly that only a very rich person
could afford to own it.

There were no bookstores such as we have now, and
books were very few. JBut in the great schools and
large monasteries there were men called scriptores, lo
or copyists, whose business it was to make written
copies of such works as were in demand. There
were other men called illuminators who ornamented
the books with beautiful initials and chapter head-
ings, and sometimes encircled the pages with borders is
made with ink of different colors.

At last some copyist who had several copies to
make of the same book thought of a new plan.
He carved a copy of each page on a block of wood.
If there was a picture, he carved that too, much in 20
the same way that wood engravings are made now.
When the block was finished, it was carefully wetted
with a thin, inky substance ; then a sheet of paper
was laid upon it and pressed down till an impression

171

of the carved block was printed upon it. Each page
was treated in the same way, but the paper could be
printed only on one side. When all were finished,
the leaves were stitched together and made into a

6 book. It was not as handsome a book as those writ-
ten with pen and ink ; but, after the block had once
been engraved, the copyist could make fifty copies of
it in less time than he could make one by hand.
Books made in this way were called block books.

10 It required much time and a great deal of skill to
engrave the blocks ; and so this method of printing
never came into very general use.

II. LAURENCE COSTER

About the beginning of the fifteenth century there
lived in the old Dutch town of Haarlem a man whose

15 name was Laurence Jaonssen. This man was much
looked up to by all his neighbors ; for he was honest
and wealthy, and he had been in his younger days
the treasurer of the town. He was the sacristan of
the Church of St. Bavon, and for that reason he was

20 called Laurence Coster, which means Laurence the
Sacristan. As he grew old and gray, he became very
quiet in his ways, and there was nothing that he
liked so well as being alone, with the bright sun
above him and the trees and flowers and birds all

25 around him.

172

Every afternoon, as soon as he had dmed, he threw
his short black cloak over his shoulders, took his
broad-brimmed hat from its peg, and with his staff
in his hand sauntered out for a walk. Sometimes
he strolled along the banks of the broad and sluggish s
river, picking flowers as he went ; sometimes he ram-
bled through the fields and came home by the great
road which led around to the other side of the town.
But he liked best to go out to the old forest which
lay beyond the flat meadow lands a mile farther lo
away. There the trees grew large and tall, and
afforded a pleasant shelter on warm days from the
sun, and in cooler weather from the keen winds that
blow across the meadows from the sea.

When tired of walking, Laurence Coster would 15
often sit down on the spreading root of some old
beech tree; and then, to pass away the time, he
would split off a piece of the bark, and with his
knife would shape it into one of the letters of the
alphabet. This was an old habit of his — a habit 20
which he had learned when he was a boy ; and
afterwards, when he was just turning into man-
hood, it had been no uncommon thing for him to
stroll into the woods and carve upon the trees the
name of a young maiden whom he knew. Now, 25
old and gray and solemn, the habit still remained
with him. He liked to sit and cut out alphabets for

173

the amusement of his little grandchildren to whom

he carried them.

One^day, having shaped the letters with more care

than usual, he wrapped them up in a piece of parch-
5 ment that he had in his pocket. " The children will

be delighted with these, I know," he said.

When he reached home and opened the package,

he was surprised to see the imprint of several of the

letters very clear and distinct upon the parchment.
10 The sap, running out of the green bark, had acted

as ink on the face of the letters. This accident set

him to thinking.

He carved another set of letters with very great

care, and then, dipping one side in ink, pressed them
15 on a sheet of parchment. The result was a print,

almost as good as the block pictures and block books

which were sold in the shops, and were the only

examples of printing then known.

''1 really believe," said Laurence Coster, "that
20 with enough of these letters I could print a book.

It would be better than printing by the block method ;

for I would not be obliged to cut a separate block

for each page, but could arrange and rearrange the

letters in any order that might be required."
25 And so now, instead of idling his afternoons away,

and instead of cutting letters merely for the children,

he set earnestly to work to improve his invention.

174

He made a kind of ink that was thicker and more
gluey than common ink, and not so likely to spread
and leave an ugly blot. He carved a great. many
letters of various sizes, and found that with his im-
proved ink he could make clear, distinct impressions, 6
and could print entire pages, with cuts and diagrams
and fancy headings.

After a while he thought of making the letters of
lead instead of wood; and finally he found that a
mixture of lead and tin was better than pure lead, lo
because it was harder and more durable. And so,
year after year, Laurence Coster toiled at the mak-
ing of types and the printing of books. Soon his
books began to attract attention, and as they were
really better and cheaper than the block books, is
there was much call for them.

Some of the good people of Haarlem were greatly
troubled because the old gentleman spent so much of
his time at such work.

" He is bewitched," said some. 20

" He has sold himself to the evil one,'' said others.

" No good thing will ever come out of this busi-
ness," said they all.

III. JOHN GUTENBERG.

One day when Laurence Coster was making his
first experiments in printing, a young traveler, with 25

175

a knapsack on his back and a staff in his hand, came
trudging into Haarlem.

" My name is John Gutenberg, and my home is at
Mayence," he said to the landlord of the inn where

5 he stopped. •

" And pray what may be your business in our good
city of Haarlem ? " asked the landlord.

" I am trying to gain knowledge by seeing the
world/' was the answer. " I have been to Rome

10 and Venice and Genoa ; I have visited Switzerland
and all the great cities in Germany ; and now I am
on my way through Holland to France."

" What is the most wonderful thing that you have
seen in your travels ?" asked the landlord.

15 " There is nothing more wonderful to me than the
general ignorance of the people/' said Gutenberg.
" They seem to know nothing about the country in
which they live ; they know nothing about the peo-
ples of other lands ; and, what is worse, they know

20 nothing about the truths of religion. If there were
only some way to make books more plentiful, so
that the* common people could buy them and learn
to read them, a great deal of this ignorance would be
dispelled. Ever since I was a mere youth at school,

25 this thought has been in my mind."

" Well," said the landlord, " we have a man here
in Haarlem who makes books ; and, although I know

176

nothing about them myself, I have been told that he
makes them by a new method, and much faster and
cheaper than they have ever been made before."

"Who is this man? Tell me where I can find
him ! " cried Gutenberg. 5

" His name is Laurence Coster, and he lives in
the big house which you see over there close by the
market place. You -can find him at home at all
hours of the day ; for, since he got into this mad
way about printing, he never walks out." 10

Gutenberg lost no time in making
the acquaintance of Laurence Coster.
Tlni kind old gentleman showed him
his types, and told him all about
his plans; and when he brought is
out a Latin Grammar which
he had just finished, Guten-
berg was filled with wonder
and delight.

" This is what I have so 20
long hoped for," he said.
" Now knowledge ' will fly
on the wings of truth to the uttermost parts of the
earth ! "

Many different stories have been told about the 26
way in which Gutenberg set to work to improve
the art of printing. One relates that, after liaving

John Qatsnberg.

177

gained the confidence of Laurence Coster, he stole
all his types and tools and carried them to Mayence,
where he opened a workshop of his own. Another
story is as follows :

5 After seeing Laurence Coster's work, he was so
impatient to be doing something of the kind himself
that he left Haarlem. the next morning and hurried
to Strasburg. There he shut himself up in a room
which he rented, and set to work to carry out the

10 plans which he had in mind. With a knife and
some pieces of wood he made several sets of movable
type, and arranging them in words and sentences,
strung them together upon pieces of wire. In this
way he was able to print more rapidly than by

16 Laurence Coster's method, where each letter, or at
most each word, was printed separately.

He soon set up a shop in an old ruined monastery
just outside of the town, and began work as a
jeweler. He polished precious stones, and he dealt

20 in mirrors which he mounted in frames of carved
wood. He did this partly to earn a livelihood, and
partly to conceal the greater projects which he had
in hand. In a dark secluded corner of the mon-
astery he fitted up another workshop where he could

25 secretly carry on his experiments in printing. There,
behind bolts and bars and a thick oaken door, he
spent all of his spare time with his types.

SCH. READ. V. — 12

178

Little by little, Gutenberg made improvements in
his art. He invented methods for making letters
of metal that were better than any that Laurence
Coster had used. He learned how to mix inks of
various colors. He made brushes and rollers for s
inking the types; "forms" for keeping the letters
together when arranged for printing ; and at last a
press for bringing the paper into contact with the
inked type.

IV. THE TWO VOICES.

Whether awake or asleep, John Gutenberg's mind lo
was always full of his great invention. One night
as he sat looking at a sheet that he had printed on
his first press, he thought that he heard two voices
whispering near him. One of the voices was soft
and musical and very pleasant to hear; the other it
was harsh and gruff and full of discordant tones.
The gentle voice spoke first.

''Happy, happy man!" it said. "Go on with
your great work, and be not discouraged. In the
ages to come, men of all lands will gain knowledge 20
and become wise by means of your great invention.
Books will multiply until they are within the reach
of all classes of people. Every child will learn to
read. And to the end of time, the name of John
Gutenberg will be remembered." 25

180

Then the harsh voice spoke : " Beware ! beware !
and think twice of what you are doing. Evil as
well as good will come from this invention upon
which you have set your heart. Instead of being a
blessing to mankind, it will prove to be a curse. 5
Pause and consider before you place in the hands of
sinful and erring men another instrument of evil."

Gutenberg's mind was filled with distress. He
thought of the fearful power which the art of print-
ing would give to wicked men to corrupt and debase 10
their fellow-men. He leaped to his feet, he seized
his hammer, and had almost destroyed his types and
press when the gentle voice spoke again, and in
accents loud enough to cause him to pause.

"Think a moment," it said. "God's gifts are all 15
good, and yet which one of them is not abused and
sometimes made to serve the purposes of wicked
men. What will the art of printing do? It will
carry the knowledge of good into all lands ; it will
promote virtue ; it will be a new means of giving 20
utterance to the thoughts of the wise and the good."

Gutenberg threw down his hammer and set to
work to repair the mischief that he had done. But
scarcely had he put his printing machine in good
order when other troubles arose. He was in debt, 3b
and he had difficulties with the town officers. His
goods were seized upon ; his types were destroyed ;

181

and he was at last obliged to return penniless to his
old home in Mayence.

V. JOHN FUST.

In Mayence, Gutenberg had an old friend named
John Fust, who was a goldsmith and very rich.

5 With this man he soon formed a partnership, and a
printing office much better than the one at Stras-
burg was set up. Several books, most of them on
religious subjects, were printed and sent out, and the
business was soon in a flourishing condition.

10 But Gutenberg's troubles were not yet ended.
There were a great many people who were opposed
to his new way of making books. The copyists who
made their living by transcribing books were very
bitter against it because it would destroy their busi-

15 ness. They formed a league to oppose the printers,

and before long drove Gutenberg out of Mayence.

After wandering to various places in Germany,

he at last gained the friendship of Adolphus, the

Elector of Nassau, who took a great interest in his

20 plans. A press was set up at the court of the
Elector, and there Gutenberg worked for several
years, printing volume after volume with his own
hands. But his invention did not bring him wealth.
When he died at the age of sixty-nine years, he left

26 no property but a few books which he had printed.

182

His partner, John Fust, had been much more
fortunate. He had set up another press at Mayence,
and in spite of the copyists and their friends was
printing many books, and reaping great profits from
their sale. One summer he printed some Bibles and s
took them to Paris to sell. They looked very much
like the manuscript copies made by the copyists, for
it was to the interest of the printers to pass off their
books as manuscripts. People were astonished when
Fust offered to sell his Bibles at sixty crowns, while lo
the copyists demanded five hundred. They were
still more astonished when he produced them as fast
as they were wanted, and finally lowered the price.
The copyists were very bitter against him.

'' He is a magician ! " they cried. " No one but a 15
magician could do this." And so the officers were
sent to arrest him and search his rooms. They found
a great many Bibles and some red ink.

" There is no doubt about it," said the officers.
^'This is blood, and the man is a magician." 20

In order to save himself from being burned as a
wizard, Fust was obliged to go before the Parliament'
of Paris and tell all about his new method of mak-
ing books, and how he used the red ink for embel-
lishing the borders of the pages. 25

It was thus that the art of printing by movable
types first became known to the world.

THE WANDERER
Upon a mountain height far from the soa

I found a shell,
And to my listening ear the lonely

thing
Ever a song of ocean seemed
to sing,
Ever a tale of ocean
seemed to tell.

How came the shell upon that

mountain height ? ,.

Ah, who can say ? Engwe Fi.u.

Whether there dropped by some too careless hand
Or whether there cast when Ocean left the Land

Ere the Eternal had ordained the Day.
Strange, was it not? Far from its native deep

One song it sang, —
Sang of the awful mysteries of the tide,
Sang of the misty sea, profound and wide, —

Ever with echoes of the ocean rang.
And, as the shell upon the mountain height

Sings of the sea,
So do I ever, leagues and leagues away, —
So do I ever, wandering where I may —

Sing, my home ! sing, my home, of thee !
— Eugene Field.

LEAD THOU ME ON.

Lead, kindly light, amid the encir-
cling gloom,

Lead thou me on !
The night is dark, and I am far from
home, —

Lead thou me on !
Keep thou my feet; I do not

ask to see
The distant scene, — one step
enough for me.

Oardiiol Nevmaa.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that thou

Shouldst lead me on.
I loved to choose and see my path, but now

Lead thou me on !
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will : remember not past years.

So long thy power hath blessed me, sure it still

Will lead me on,
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till

The night is gone ;
And with the niorn those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since, and lost a while.

— John Henry Newman.

185

THE AMERICAN INDIAN.

Not many generations ago, where you now sit,
encircled with all that exalts and embellishes civil-
ized life, the rank thistle nodded in the wind, and
the wild fox dug his hole unscared. Here lived

3 and loved another race of beings. Beneath the
same sun that rolls over your heads, the Indian
hunter pursued the panting deer; gazing on the
same moon that smiles for you, the Indian lover
wooed his dusky mate.

10 Here the wigwam blaze beamed on the tender
and helpless, the council fire glared on the wise and
daring. Now they dipped their noble limbs in your
sedgy lakes, and now they paddled the light canoe
along your rocky shores. Here they warred ; the

15 echoing whoop, the bloody grapple, the defying
death song, all were here ; and, when the tiger strife
was over, here curled the smoke of peace.

Here, too, they worshiped; and from many a
dark bosom went up a pure prayer to the Great

20 Spirit. He had not written his laws for them on
tables of stone, but he had traced them on the tables
of their hearts. The poor child of nature knew not
the G i of revelation, but the God of the universe
he acknowledged in everything around.

26 He beheld him in the star that sank in beauty

186

behind his lonely dwelling ; in the sacred orb that
flamed on him from his midday throne; in the
flower that snapped in the morning breeze ; in the
lofty pine, that defied a thousand whirlwinds ; in
the timid warbler that never left its native grove ; 5
in the fearless eagle whose untired pinion was wet
in clouds ; in the worm that crawled at his foot ;
and in his own matchless form, glowing with a
spark of that light, to whose mysterious Source
he bent, in humble, though blind, adoration. 10

And all this has passed away. Across the ocean
came a pilgrim bark, bearing the seeds of life and
death. The former were sown for you; the latter
sprang up in the path of the simple native. Two
hundred years have changed the character of a 15
great continent, and blotted, forever, from its face a
whole peculiar people. Art has usurped the bowers
of nature, and the anointed children of education
have been too powerful for the tribes of the ignorant.

Here and there, a stricken few remain ; but how 20
unlike their bold, untamed, untamable progenitors !
The Indian of falcon glance and lion bearing, the
theme of the touching ballad, the hero of the pathetic
tale, is gone ! and his degraded offspring crawl upon
the soil where he walked in majesty, to remind us 25
how miserable is man, when the foot of the con-
queror is on his neck.

isr

As a race, they have withered from the land.
Their arrows are broken, their springs are dried
up, their cabins are in the dust. Their council fire
has long since gone out on the shore, and their

6 war cry is fast dying to the untrodden west. Slowly
and sadly they climb the distant mountains. They
are shrinking before the mighty tide which is press-
ing them away ; they must soon hear the roar of the
last wave, which will settle over them forever.

10 Ages hence, the inquisitive white man, as he stands
by some growing city, will ponder on the structure
of their disturbed remains, and wonder to what man-
ner of person they belonged. They will live only in
the songs and chronicles of their exterminators. Let

15 these be faithful to their rude virtues as men, and
pay due tribute to their unhappy fate as a people.

— Charles Spragiie,

-OO^lO^OO-

THE PASSING OF KING ARTHUR.

Whether there ever was a real King Arthur, or
whether he lived only in the imagination of story-
tellers and song writers, no one can tell. This much
20 is true, however, that the history of his exploits and
those of his Knights of the Round Table has existed
in poetry and song for now almost a thousand years.

188

Long before there were any English books worth
speaking of, the story of King Arthur was sung and
recited by wandering bards to delighted listeners in
the halls and castles of Old England. In the course
of time it was written down in poetry and in prose ; 5
it was turned into French, and from the French back
into English again ; other stories were added to it,
and it became the most popular romance ever com-
posed. In 1470, a knight whose name was Sir
Thomas Malory made a version of it in what was 10
then good English prose, taking it, as he said,, " out
of a certain book of French." This version has ever
since been the one book to which all who would
know the story of King Arthur have turned ; it is
the mine from which later writers have derived 15
materials for their works. It is written in a style
which, although old-fashioned and quaint, is wonder-
fully simple and beautiful.

One of the most touching passages in the story is
that which tells how King Arthur, having fought 20
his last battle, lay wounded upon the ground ; and
how, being deserted by all the knights except Sir
Bedivere, he waited for the coming of fairy messen-
gers to bear him away to the island valley of Avilion.
Here is the passage, not in the exact words of Sir 25
Thomas Malory, but repeated, somewhat after his
manner, in words of modern usage.

189

" My hour is near at hand," said the king to Sir
Bedivere. "Therefore, take thou my good sword
Excalibur, and go with it to yonder water side ; and
when thou comest there, I charge thee thro\v it in
5 that water, and then come and tell me what thou
hast seen."

" My lord," said Sir Bedivere, " your bidding shall
be done, and I will come quickly and bring you
word."
10 So Sir Bedivere departed, and as he went he looked
at that noble sword, and saw that the hilt and guard
were covered with precious stones ; and then he said
to himself, "If I throw this rich sword into the
water, no good shall ever come of it, but only harm
15 and loss."

Then Sir Bedivere hid Excalibur under a tree.
And as soon as he might, he came again unto the
king, and said he had been at the water side, and
had thrown the sword into the water.
20 " What sawest thou there ? " said the king.
" Sir, I saw nothing but waves and winds."
" Thou speakest not the truth," said the king.
"Therefore, go quickly again and do my bidding;
and as thou art dear to me, spare not, but throw
25 the sword in."

Then Sir Bedivere returned again, and took the
* sword in his hand. But when he looked at it he

190

thought it a sin and a shame to throw away so noble
a sword. And so, after he had hidden it again, he
came back and told the king that he had been at the
water and liad done his bidding.

" What sawest thou there ? " said the king.

hajid bIuts the w&ter.

" Sir," he said, " I saw nothing but the waves lap-
ping on the beach, and the water rising and falling
among the reeds."

"Ah, traitor untrue," said King Arthur, "now
thou hast betrayed me twice. Who would have lo
thought that thou, who hast been so near and dear
to me and art called a noble knight, would betray'

191

me for the riches of the sword ? But now go again
quickly, for I am chilled with cold, and my life is in
danger through thy long delay. And if thou dost
not do my bidding, and I ever see thee again, I will

5 slay thee with my own hands ; for thou, for the sake
of my rich sword, would see me dead."

Then Sir Bedivere departed ; and he quickly took
the sword and went to the water side. Then he
wrapped the belt about the hilt, and threw the

10 sword as far into the water as he could. And there
came an arm and a hand above the water, and
caught the sword, and shook it thrice and bran-
dished it. Then the hand, with the sword, van-
ished in the water. So Sir Bedivere came again

15 to the king and told him what he had seen.

" Alas," said the king, " help me from this place ;
for I fear that I have tarried top long."

Then Sir Bedivere took the king upon his back,
and carried him to the water side. And when they

20 came to the water, a little barge was seen floating

close by the bank ; and in the barge were many fair

ladies, and among them was a queen. All these

wept and cried out when they saw King Arthur.

" Now put me into the barge," said the king ; and

25 this Sir Bedivere did, with tenderness and care.

And three of the fair ladies received him with
great mourning. Then that one who was the queen

192

said: "Ah, dear brother, why have you staid so
long? Alas, I fear lest this wound on your head
has been chilled over much with the cold ! "

Then they rowed from the land, and Sir Bedivere
watched them. And he cried : " Ah, my lord 5
Arthur! What shall become of me, now you go
away and leave me here alone among my enemies ? "

" Comfort thyself," said the king, " and do the
best thou canst, for I can no longer give thee help.
For I go now into the vale of Avilion, to heal me of 10
my grievous wound. If thou never hear more of
me, pray for my soul."

But the ladies and the queen wept and cried
in a way that was piteous to hear. And when Sir
Bedivere lost sight of the barge, he wept bitterly ; 15
and, weeping, he went into the forest, where he
wandered all that long night.

" Some men yet say," continues Sir Thomas
Malory, " that King Arthur is not dead, but taken
by the will of our Lord into another, place. And no
men say that he shall come again and shall win
the hol}^ cross. I will not say it shall be so, but
rather I will say that in this world he changed his
life. But many men say that there is written upon
his tomb a verse in Latin, which when turned into 26
English, is this : ' Here lieth Arthur, that was and
is to be King.'

> j>

193

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES.

-♦o*-

George Bancroft : An American historian. Born at Worces-
ter, Massachusetts, 1800 ; died, 1891. Wrote " History of the
United States from the Discovery of the Continent" (10 vol.).
Was United States Minister to Germany, 1867-1874.

Daniel Boone : The pioneer of Kentucky. Born in Pennsyl-
vania, 1735 ; died in Missouri, 1820.

William CuUen Bryant: An eminent American poet. Born
in Massachusetts, 1794; died, 1878. Wrote " Thanat'opsis "
and many other short poems. Was one of the editors of the
" Evening Post " (New York) for more than fifty years. " No
poet has described with more fidelity the beauties of creation,
nor sung in nobler song the greatness of the Creator."

Richard Henry Dana, Jr. : An American lawyer and author.
Born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1815; died, 1868. Wrote
" Two Years before the Mast " (1840).

Charles Dickens : An English novelist. Born at Landport,
England, 1812; died, 1870. His best short stories are his
"Christmas Carol" and other Christmas stories. His best
novel is generally conceded to be " David Copperfield."

William Dimond : An English poet, remembered only for his
" Mariner's Dream." Died, about 1837.

Eugene Field : An American journalist and author. Born in
St. Louis, 1850 ; died in Chicago, 1895. Wrote " A Little Book
of. Western Verse," «A Little Book of Profitable Tales,"
" Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac," and several other volumes.

Robert Fulton : An American inventor. Born in Lancaster
County, Pennsylvania, 1765 ; died, 1815.

Sir Archibald Geikie: A Scottish geologist. Born in Edin-
burgh, 1835. Has written "The Story of a Boulder," "A

8CH. READ. V. — 13

194

Class Book of Physical Jeography," and many other populai
and scientific works on geological subjects.

Thomas Grimke: An American lawyer and philanthropist.
Born in South Carolina, 1786 ; died, 1834.

Nathaniel Hawthorne: A distinguished American author.
Born at Salem, Massachusetts, 1804; died, 1864. Wrote
"The Scarlet Letter," "The Marble Faun," "The House of
the Seven Gables," " The Wonder Book," " Tanglewood Tales,"
etc. His style has been said to possess '• almost every excel-
lence — elegance, simplicity, grace, clearness, and force."

Homer: The reputed author of the two great poems, the
" Iliad " and the " Odyssey." Supposed to have been born at
Smyrna, or Chios, about one thousand years before Christ.
The "Iliad" has been called "the beginning of all literature."

Washington Irving: An American author and humorist. Born
in New York, 1783 ; died, 1859. Wrote " The Sketch Book,''
" History of New York by Diedrich Knickerbocker," " Tales of
a Traveler," "The Alhambra," "Columbus and his Compan-
ions," "Mahomet and his Successors," and many other works.

Charles Kingsley : An English clergyman and writer. Born
in Devonshire, 1819; died, 1875. Wrote "Hypatia," "West-
ward Ho ! " " The Heroes," "The Water Babies," "Alton Locke,
Tailor and Poet," "Madame How and Lady Why," several
poems, and a volume of sermons.

Sir Edwin Landseer : The most famous of modern painters of
animals. Born in London, 1802 ; died, 1873. His pictures of
dogs and horses have seldom, if ever, been surpassed.

Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, Baron Lytton : A British novel-
ist and poet. Born in Norfolk, England, 1803 ; died, 1873.
Wrote "The Last Days of Pompeii," "The Caxtons," "My
Novel," and many other novels ; also, several volumes of poems,
and two dramas, " The Lady of Lyons " and " Richelieu."

Sir Thomas Malory: A Welsh or English Knight, remem-

196

bered for his noble prose epic, "Morte d'Arthur," which he
translated from the French. Born, about 1430.

John Henry Newman : An eminent English theologian. Born
in London, 1801 ; died, 1890. Wrote many religious and con-
troversial works, and a few beautiful hymns. In 1879 he was
made cardinal-deacon in the Roman Catholic Church.

John Ruskin : A distinguished English author and art critic.
Born in London, 1819. Has written " The Stones of Venice,"
« Sesame and Lilies," " Ethics of the Dust," " The Queen of
the Air," "Crown of Wild Olive," " Prseterita," and many
other works, chiefly on subjects connected with art.

Sir Walter Scott : A celebrated novelist and poet. Born in
Edinburgh, Scotland, 1771 ; died, 1832. Wrote the " Waverley
Novels," « The Lay of the Last Minstrel," « The Lady of the
Lake," " Tales of a Grandfather," and many other works.

Charles Sprague : An American poet. Born in Boston, 1791 ;
died 1875. Wrote several short poems, most of which are now
forgotten.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson : Poet laureate of England. Born in
Lincolnshire, 1809 ; died, 1892. Wrote " Idylls of the King,"
" In Memoriam," " The Princess," and many shorter poems ;
also the dramas " Queen Mary," " Harold," and " Becket."

Daniel Webster: American statesman and orator. Born in
New Hampshire, 1782 ; died, 1852. His most famous orations
are those on Bunker Hill, Adams and Jefferson, and his " Keply
to Hayne."

John Greenleaf Whittier: A distinguished American poet.
Born at Haverhill, Massachusetts, 1807; died, 1892. Wrote
many volumes of poetry, including "In War Time," "Snow-
Bound," "Mabel Martin," "The King's Missive," and others.

Samuel Woodworth : An American journalist and poet. Born
in Massachusetts, 1785 ; died, 1842. He is remembered chiefly
for his little poem " The Old Oaken Bucket."

196

WORD LIST.

THE MOST DIFFICULT WORDS IN THE PRECEDING
LESSONS PRONOUNCED AND DEFINED.

KEY TO THE MARKS OF PRONUNCIATION.

a, e, i, o, n, long ; S, S, t, o, tt, y, short ; c&re, arm, &sk, all ; f^rn ;
fdrm, son ; rude, full, Qrn ; fdod, booR ; finder ; gentle ; chasm ;
thin ; them ; iok.

a ban'don. To give up ; relin-
quish.

Sb'bot. The ruler of an abbey.

a br id ged'. Shortened.

a byss'. a bottomless gulf, [tened.

ac QeFerated. Quickened ; has-

ac'^l dent, a sudden and unex-
pected event.

a chieved'. Done ; accomplished.

acknowredged(aknor6jd).

Assented to ; owned as a
fact. [light.

ad mi ra'tion. Wonder and de-

af f ect'ed. Moved ; influenced.

agi taction. Emotion; excite-
ment.

a loOl . Away from. [ishment.

a maze'ment. Wonder ; aston-

am'ber. Yellowish.

ain'bling. Going at an easy gait.

3,m mu ni'tion. Articles used
in charging firearms.

am'ple. Sufficient. "Ample
prospects " = wide or ex-
tended views.

a n8n'. ** Ever and anon " = fre-
quently; often.

Sn'ti quat ed. Old-fashioned.

an tique' (Sn teek'). Old ; an-
cient, [deer.

an'tlered. Having horns like a

ap pairing. Terrible ; fearful.

appar'ently. Clearly; seem-
ingly, [pearance ; a ghost.

ap pa ri'tion. a wonderful ap-

ap pli caption (of the rod).

The act of laying on.

ap point'ed. Set apart ; named ;
established.

Sp pren'tT^e ship. Service un-
der legal agreement for the
purpose of learning a trade
or art. [out.

Ss qer tained'. Learned ; found

197

^'pens. Poplar trees of a cer-
tain kind, the leaves of
which are moved by the
slightest breeze.

aSSault^ed. Attacked ; set upon
with violence. [part.

a stern . At the stem or hinder

at most = at the greatest esti-
mate, [matter.

St'om. The smallest particle of

au'di ble. That can be heard.

au'di ence. An assembly of
hearers.

a v6nge'. To inflict punishment
upon evil doers for an in-
jury to one's self or friends.

bal driC. A broad belt worn over

• «

one shoulder and under the
opposite arm.

bar. The legal profession. ** Ad-
mitted to the bar" = au-
thorized to practice law in
the courts.

ba SIS. Foundation ; groundwork.

bask ing. Lying in a warm place.

bay. ** Leaves of bay'' = leaves
of the laurel tree.

be dlght'. Dressed.

bel lig'er ent. Warlike.

be stowed'. Placed ; used ; im-
parted.

bewtrdered. Greatly perplexed.

be witched'. Charmed ; en-
tranced.

bick'er. To move quickly,
bilge water. Water in the hold
of a ship.

birch (of jiis tice). A tough,

slender twig, used in school
for punishment.

biv'ouac (blv'wSk). An en-
campment for the night
without tents or covering.

bla'zoned. Displayed in bright
colors ; published far and
wide.

bliib'ber. The fat of whales and
other large sea animals,
from which oil is obtained.

bliish'ing gob'let. a goblet

or glass full of red wine.

boat'swain (bo's'n). An offi-
cer who has charge of the
boats of a ship.

bSnds'man. a slave.

bow er. a lady's private apart-
ment ; a shady recess.

brake, a thicket; a place over-
grown with shrubs.

bram'bly. Full of briers.

bran'dished. Shook or flour-
ished.

broad'side. a discharge at the
same time of all the guns
on one side of a ship.

biic Ca neers'. Robbers upon the
sea. [mass.

buriion. Gold or silver in the

198

biirgh'er. Townsman ; vDlager.

biir'nished. Polished.
biirnt 8f f er ing. Something

offered and burnt on an
altar as an atonement for
sin.

biix'om . stout and rosy.

Cane'brakes. Thickets of canes.

Ca pri^'ious. changeable ; freak-
ish.

car ni v'or OUS. Flesh-eating.

case ment. a window sash open-
ing on hinges.

Cat'a rSct. a waterfall.

9eriu lar. Containing cells.

-ehasms (kazmz). Deep open-
ings in the earth.

Ch8p'f alien. Dejected; down-
cast.

■ehrSn'i cles. Historical account
of facts arranged in regular
order.

churls. Countrymen ; laborers.

qir cum'fer en^e. The distance

around.

qir'cum stan qes. Facts ;

events.
cleave. Separate ; divide,
close hauled. Moving as nearly

as possible toward the wind,
clue. A thread ; means of guid-

ance.

f^ •

coinage. The act of making
pieces of money from metal.

C8ra biis'ti ble. That can be

burned. [and sold.

C8m mSd'i ties. Things bought

c8m'mon wSalth. a state;

the public.

C5m muned'. Talked together.

C5m mu ni caption, inter-
course; news. [reward.

C5m pen sa'tion. Payment;

c8m'pli cat ed. Complex ; com-
bined in an intricate man-
ner, [mixed.

C8m pound'ed. Put together;

C8n ^ed'ed. Gave up ; yielded.

C8n 9Sp'tions. ideas ; notions.

C8n f erred'. Gave ; bestowed.

c8n f r6nts\ Meets face to face.

con Spic'u OUS. Plain ; distinct.

con Stlt'u entS. Component
parts. [bidden.

C8n'tra band . Prohibited ; f or-

COOt. A bird resembling a duck.

c8p y ist. One who copies.

cor riipt'. To change from good
to bad ; depraved, [ance.

COUn'te nan^e. Face ; appear-

Cra'ni um. The skull, [volcano.

era ter . The opening or mouth of a

ere dull ty. Readiness of belief.

Cr8pped. Grazed. ** Hair cropped
close " = hair cut short.

crouched, stooped low, as an
animal when waiting for
prey.

199

ctir'dled . Coagulated ; thickened.
"Curdling awe" = awe
that thickens the blood in
the veins. [ian.

CUS to'di an. a keeper ; guard-

de clSn'sion. a failing. ** De-
clension of spirits " = loss
of cheerfulness.

dSm'on Strate. To explain ;
point out.

de noun^e'. To accuse; threaten.

de prgss'ing. Pressing down ;
humbling.

de scried'. Saw ; beheld.

de gerts' (de zerts') . « Accord-
ing to his deserts " = as he
deserves.

de spite'ful ly. Maliciously.

de Sp8t'ic (power). Tlie power
of a master ; tyranny.

devolved'. Passed from one
person to another.

di'a grams. Drawings; plans.

die tat'ed. said ; declared.

diffused'. Spread; circulated.

dig ni ty. Loftiness and grace.

diri gent. Busy ; earnest.

di men'sions. Extent ; measure.

discSrd'ant. Unmusical; jar-
ring.

dis COUn'te nan^ed. Discour-
aged ; abashed.

dis gUl§ed'. Hidden.

disk. The face of a heavenly body.

dis sSv'ered. separated.
dSg'ged. Sullen ; obstinate.
doubloon'. a Spanish coin

worth about ^15.00.
drSm'atized. Represented in

a play,
drudg'er y. Hard, mean labor.
due. **A stranger's due" = that

which custom requires to

be given to a stranger.
dusk. '* Breezes dusk and shiver "

= darken and cause to

quiver,
ec'sta sy. Extreme delight.
eight-bells. On shipboard, the

striking of a bell eight

times at 4, 8, and 12 o'clock.
eked, increased, [of something.
el e inent. One of several parts

em bel'lish ing. illustrating ;

beautifying.

em'blem. sign. [tion.

6m'i nen9e. High place or sta-
e mit'ting. Sending out.
en 91 reeled. Surrounded.
enCOUn'tered. Met face to face.
ensign, a banner; one who
carries a banner. [tive.
en'ter prl^ ing. Resolute ; ac-
en th roned'. Put on a throne.

en treat'. To beg off.

e r Up'tion . a breaking out.
e'ther. The air ; a light, volatile
liquid.

200

Sv er-va'ry ing. Ever-changing.
6vl dence. Proof. [on high.

ex alt'ed (Sgz alt'ed). Raised

ex feeding. More than usual.
ex 9Ss'sive. Overmuch.
exclu'sive. shutting out all

others.
ex e CU fed . Performed.

ex haust'ing (6gz astlng).

Using up ; tiring out.
ex per'i mentS. Trials ; tests.
ex port'ed . Carried out.

ex pQs tu la'tions.

Remonstrances.
ex pressly. Particularly.

ex'quis ite (ex'kw i zit).

Very excellent ; nice.

ex tant'. still existing.

exult'ed (egZ iilt'ed). Re-
joiced.

f Sriow. Land left unplowed.

fan tSs'tic. Fanciful ; unreal.

fath'om. Six feet.

fa tig'u ing (fa teg'ing).

Tiring ; wearying.
f e 189! ty . Fierceness.

ferrule (fgr'ril). a short stick

or ruler.
feuds. Quarrels; disputes.
filin'§y. Weak ; limp.
f O ray'. An attack ; a raid.

fore'cas tie (for'kas'l). The

forward part of a ship.
fSre'land. a cape ; headland.

for SWear^ To declare or deny-
on oath.
f o'rum. A court ; tribunal,
foul. Shameful ; disgraceful.

f rag'men ta ry. in pieces.

f ra te r'nal . Brotherly,
froi/tier. Borderland. [ing.
f ur'bish ing. Scouring; clean-

gar'ish. showy.

gar'nished. Decorated,
gaunt (gant) . Thin ; lean,
gem'iny. Full of gems,
girth. Band fastening a saddle
on a horse's back. , [ice.

gla'cier (gla'sher). Field of

.glu'ey. Full of glue ; sticky.

gnarled (narld). Knotty ;

twisted,
goblm, A mischievous spirit;

pliantom.
good'man. a tenant,
gos'sip. To tattle ; talk,
gran'deur. Vastness; nobility.
graph'lC. Vivid ; impressive.

gray'ling. a kind of fish.

greaves. Armor for the leg be-
low the knee.

griev'ous. Causing sorrow.

guard. Protection. ** Mounting
guard " = keeping watch.

giit'tur al. a sound made in the
throat.

hapless. Unfortunate.

hap'ly. Fortunately.

201

har pOOn'. a barbed spear, used
in catching whales and
other sea animals.

haunts. Places of resort.

heav'ing. Hoisting; straining.

her'alded. Proclaimed; made
known, [established belief .

her e Sy. Opinion contrary to

hern, a wading bird. [turvy.

higgledy-piggledy. Topsy-

hooves. Feet of horses or cattle,
horse'man ship. The riding of

horses.
hove. Hoisted ; came to a stop,
hu mane'. Kind ; gentle,
hug'band man. Farmer,
hiis'tled (husTd). Pushed;

crowded. [embellishers,
il lu'mi na tors. illustrators ;
il lus'tri OUS. Noble ; grand,
im bed'ded . Covered over.
impearled^ Made look as

though ornamented with

pearls. [entered.

ira pen'e tra ble. Not to bt

im per f ec'tions. shortcom-
ings ; failings.

im'potence. Weakness; in-
firmity ; having no power.

impres'sion. Mark made by
pressure.

in'^i dents. Happenings.

in cli na'tion. Desire, [against.

in clined'. Leaned toward ; placed

— /

in con ve ni en^e. Disadvan-
tage ; awkwardness.

in CrSd'i ble. Not to be believed.

in Cred ti'li ty. Showing dis-
belief.

in Cred'u loUS. Unbelieving.

in den ta'tion. Notch ; dent.

in di captions. Signs ; symptoms.

in differ en^e. Carelessness ;
heedlessness. [described.

in ex pres'si ble. Not to be

in'no cen^e. Harmlessness.
in no va'tions. Things not cus-
tomary, [ber.

in nu'mer a ble. without num-
• -/

m qui ry. Research ; an inquir-
ing.

in Sgp'ar a ble. Nottobedivided.

m'so lent ly. Rudely, [lished.

in Sti tti'tion. Something estab-

in sure'. To make sure.

in tellec'tual. Belonging to
the mind ; mental.

in tgrii gen9e. News.

intSns'est. strictest; extreme
in degree. [on the way.

in ter ^ept'ed. cutoff ; stopped

interfered'. Meddled; inter-
posed, [gether.

intermingling. Mixing to-
in un da'tion. a flood.

in venation. Discovery; find-
ing out. [into.

in ves tiga'tion. a looking

202

ir re§'o lute ly . in an undecided
manner. [settled.

i tin'er ant. Wandering ; not
keel. The bottom part of a boat,
knell. A funeral bell.

knight-er'rant. a knight who

traveled in search of adven-
tures.

knoll . A little round hill.

lS,ird. A Scottish landholder.

lar'board. Left-hand side of a
ship. [alarums = alarms.

'lar'ums. Abbreviation of

lat'er al. sideways.

launch'ing. Setting afloat.

lau rel. An evergreen shrub ;
a symbol of honor.

la Va. Melted rock from a volcano.

league. About three miles ; a
treaty of friendship.

leeSvard. The part toward which
the wind blows.

I6g is la'tion. Lawmaking.

Igp'rOUS. Affected with a disease
called leprosy.

1 it'e r al ly . Word for word .

lock er. a chest on shipboard.

lu'mi nous. Shining ; bright.

liis'ti ly. Vigorously ; with

strength.

lust'y. Stout ; robust.

lux u'ri OUS. Dainty ; expen-
sive ; pleasing to the appe-
tite.

lyre (lir). a stringed musical
instrument.

magT9'ian (-jish'un). One

skilled in magic, [principal,
main. The sea; the mainland;
majes'tic. Stately; giand.

mal for ma' tion . irregular

formation.

maVlow. A kind of plant.

manifest. Plain; clear.

man'u script. Something writ-
ten by hand.

mSd'i ta tive . Thoughtful.

mSt'tle. Spirit ; temper.

mi li'tia (mi lish'a). a body

of citizen soldiers, [coined,
mint. A place where money is

mis cliSn9e'. ni luck.

m is's lie . Something thrown.

mis treating. Abusing.

mol es taction. Troubling ; an-
noyance.

mood. Temper ; humor ; manner.

m6r ti fi caption. Vexation ;
shame.

mo tive. Moving ; causing to
move ; reason.

murkl ness. Obscurity ; dark-
ness.

myr'tle. a shrubby plant.

myste'rioUS. strange; un-
known ; unaccountable.

nar'ra tive. story ; tale.

nau'ti cal. Belonging to the sea.

203

nSc'tar. a delicious drink.

nStil'er. Lower.

nobirity. The being noble;
those of high rank.

nourish er. One who supports
or feeds.

n5v el. A fictitious narrative.

ob li ga'tions. Debts owing for
a favor or kindness.

ob ger Va'tion . view ; notice ;
comment.

8bM at ed. Avoided,

of fi^'ioUS (8f fish'us). Med-
dlesome.

Sm'i nous. Foreboding eviL

8p por tti'ni ty. chance; fit
time.

8p'u lent. Rich.

or dained'. Set apart ; appointed.

pad'. An easy -paced horse.

page. A boy employed to attend
a person of high rank.

pa rade'. Display ; show.

parch'ment. Skin of a sheep
prepared for writing on.

pas'try cooks. Cooks who make
pies, tarts, etc.

pa thet'ic. FuU of tender pity.

pa troriing. Traversing ; guard-
ing, [lar.

pe CU liar. Uncommon ; particu-

ped'agSgue. a schoolmaster. .

pen'sive. Thoughtful.

pe'o ny. a big red flower.

per 96pt'i ble. That can be seen.

per pet u al. ah the time.

pSr Se CUt'ed. Punished on ac-
count of one's belief ; har-
assed, [presentable.

per'son a ble. Well-fonned ;

per'ti nent. Well adapted to the
purpose in view.

per verse'. Contrary.

peVee. a small bird.

pew'ter (pu'ter). au aiioy of

tin and lead,
phe n8m'e non . a remarkable

thing or appearance.
pic tU resque'ly . vividly ; in a

pleasing manner.
pilT-lOn. Cushion behind a saddle,
pi lot. One who steers a vessel ;

a guide,
pined. Drooped; languished.
pm'ions. Wmgs. [peaks,

pm'nacles. Lofty points or
pi O neer'. One who goes before

and prepares the way for

others.
pit'e OUS. Exciting pity.
pitl a ble. Deserving pity.
plash'y. Watery ; splashy,
poig'on OUS. Full of poison.

politi'9ian(-tish'an). states-
man ; office seeker,
pol lut'ed. Made impure.

pom'mel (pum'mel). Knob

of a saddle or of a sword.

204

p8n'der ous . weighty .

por'^ti COes. Covered spaces be-
fore buildings.

p8s si Wri ties. Things possible.

pos'tern. Back entrance.

po'tent. Powerful.

pre'^ious neSS. Great value.

pre'ma ture ly. Before the
right time.

prrnial. First; original.

pr8d'igal dyes. Brilliant colors.

pr8j'ects. Plans.

promot'ed. Assisted; raised.

pro peiring. Driving.

proph'e^y (prQfesy). a

foretelling. [owner.

pro pri'e ta ry . Pertaining to an

prow. Fore part of a vessel.

piib'li cans. Collectors of taxes ;
keepers of inns.

puml^e (purn'is). A light vol-
canic stone.

pti/poses. Aims; intentions.

quag'mire. a marsh ; soft, wet
land.

quar'ter-deck . That part of the

upper deck behind the main-
mast.

quartern, a quarter of a pint ;
a fourth part.

queued, (ktid). Hair put up into
a pigtail.

qUlV er. Case for carrying arrows.

rSck'et ing. Frolicking ; playing.

rSri ied. Ridiculed pleasantly.

rSm'pant. Leaping; frolicking.

ra n ged . Roved over ; wandered.

re 9ep'^ta cle. Place to receive
things.

rec ol lec'^tion. Remembrance.

rec on no^ter. To look around.

re flec'tion. Consideration ; med-
itation ; musing ; the return
of rays, sound, etc., from a
surface.

re luc'tance. Unwillingness.

rSm'nants. Pieces remaining.

renowned^ Celebrated; fa-

mous.

required. Returned evil for

evil.
re §8rt'. To go ; a place to which

one is in the habit of going.

res'pite (rgs'pit). a putting

off; reprieve.

rev'eren9e. To treat with re-
spect and fear.

riv'en. Split apart.

ro man'tic. Unreal; picturesque.

roys'ter ing. Blustering.

sac'ristan. Sexton; church
officer.

sSriy. A rushing out; to go out.

samite, a kind of silk stuff in-
terwoven with gold. *

sapphire (sSfir). a blue pre-
cious stone.

sea^goned. Dried and hardened.

205

se clud'ed. shut up apart from
others.

se Cret'ed. Concealed.

S6ll'ti ment. Thought ; opinion.

shSriop. A boat.

Sham'bled. shuffled along.

sheatiied . Put into a case.

sllin'gly bars. Gravelly shal-
lows.

shrouds of a ship. The set of
ropes that stay the masts.

SI es ta. A midday nr-p.

Slin'm er . To boil gently.

sim pll^'i ty. Plainness ; truth-
fulness.

Sin'ew y. vigorous ; firm.

Sit U a tlOn. Location ; place.

Six'pen9e. a silver coin worth
about 12 cents.

sketch es. Short essays or stories.

skim'ming. Flying with a gentle
motion.

Slap'jacks. Griddle cakes.

Sliig'gish. Slow; lazy.

Smith'y. A blacksmith's shop.

snipe. A small bird having a
long, straight beak. * * Snipe
nose " = a nose like a snipe's
beak. [converse.

SO 9! a bll' i ty . Readiness to

SO joiimed'. Remained awhile.

solely. Alone ; only.

Spe'^ieS. Sort ; kind ; variety.

Sp§c'ter. Ghost ; phantom.

spgc U la'tion. Notion; theory.

States'men. Men eminent for
their political abilities.

steer 'age . Part of a vessel below
decks.

StSm and stern. The fore part
and the hind part of a ves-
sel, [or wall.

StSck ade'. a strong inclosure ;

Stub'ble fields. Fields from
which gi-ain has recently
been cut.

Stiirti fy. To make a fool of.

StU pend'otlS. Wonderful ;
amazing.

Suf f U§ed^ Overspread.

SUmp'tU OUS. Costly ; luxurious.

siin dry. Several ; various.

Sll per nat U ral . Miraculous.

sup po gt'tion . Something sup-
posed, [ing ; mapping out.

sur vey'ing (-vaing). view-

SWainS. Young rustics. [land,
sward . Turf ; grassy surface of the
SWarth'y. Dusky ; tawny.
Symp'tom. Sign; token, [sels.
tSn'kards. Large drinking ves-
tan'tal iz ing. Teasing,
thatch. Straw covering the roof

of a building,
themes. Topics on which one

writes or speaks.
thSrpS. Small villages.
thr8t'tling. Chokmg; strangling.

206

thyme (tim). a garden plant,
tilt. A jousting with lances; a

tournament.
t81 er a'tion. Freedom.

tSp'sail hSryards. Ropes for

hoisting the topsail, or sail
next above the lowermost
sail on a mast.
t8p'sy-turVy. Upside down.

tour'na ment

(toor'na mgnt).

A mock fight between
horsemen. [flax.

tow cl8th. Cloth made of coarse
trailed. Drawn ; dragged,
trance. An unconscious condi-
tion or state of being.

tran scrib'ing. Copymg.

trans port^ To carry ; to carry

away with joy.
trans port. Conveyance ; rapture,
trgach'er OUS. Not to be trusted.
tre men'douS. Dreadful ; awful,
trem'll lous. Trembling,
trim the yards. Arrange the

vessel for sailing. [man.
trOOp'er. Horseman ; cavalry-
tu mtirtU OUS. Disorderly.

u biq'ui tous (u bikVi tiis).

In many places at the same

time,
um^brage. Resentment.
U na nim'i ty. Agreement.
Un bfased. Not prejudiced.

un couth' (un kooth'). Awk-

ward. [understood.

un in terii gi ble. Can not be

ti ni ver'sal. General.

u'ni verse, ah created things.

unsurpassed'. Having no supe-
rior.

U SUrp' (u Zllrp"). To seize by
force ; without right.

iit'termost. Greatest; farthest
limit.

ti'til ized. Made useful.

Va'grantS. Wanderers ; beggars.

variant. Brave.

vapid. Having lost life and
spirit.

venl §0n. Flesh of the deer.

vSr'sion. a translation; a de-
scription from a particular
point of view.

VI Qinl ty. Neighborhood.

vi'cious ness (vish'iis nSss).

Wickedness.

vict'uals (Vlf'lz). Food ; pro-
visions.

Vlg'or OUS. Strong ; healthy.

vme'yards (vin'yerdz).

Places where grapevines

grow.
Vir'tues. Good qualities,
vig'ion a ry. imaginary,
vol Ca'noes. Burning mountains.

ward^er. a guard.

wayVard ness. Willfulness.

207

whey (wha). The watery part
of milk, separated from the
curd in cheese making.

vvhole'some (hol'sum).

Healthful.
^Vlck er. a twig or withe, used
ill making baskets.

wil'der ness. a wild tract of

country ; desert.

Windlass. Machine for raising
weights by turning a crank.

wTtch'craft. The art of witches.
** Witching time of night "
= time favorable for witch-
ery.

wTrties. Long, flexible twigs.
Wizard. Magician; enchanter.
WOe'ful. Wretched ; sad.
wold. A wood ; a plain.
WOod'bine. A climblni: plant.
WOod'craft. Skill in anything
connected with the woods.

wres'tling (resling). strug-
gling.
yards (of a ship). The long,

slender pieces which sup-
port the sails.

yearned. Desired very much.

yeo'man. a freeholder; a farmer.

yore. Long ago.

PROPER NAMES PRONOUNCED.

-^neas (ene'as).

JEson (e'son).

^sculapius (6s ku la'pl fis) .

Andr6 (Su'dra).

Arnpryor (arn'prlor).

Aubrey de Montdidier (5 bra da

mOntdedia').
Avilion (avil'yon).

Ballengiech (bftl'enggk).
Bedivere (b6d'Tv6r).
Braehead (bra'hgd).
Buchanan (biikan'an).
Burgundy (bgr'gtindl).

Caeneus (sg'ntis).
Camelot (kSm'e lot).

Cherokees (ch6rok6z').
Chiron (ki'ron).
Coster (kSs'ter).
Cramond (kra'mond).
Cyclops (si'klSps).

Dana (da'na).
Dragon (drSg^on).

Edinburgh (6d'Tn biirro).
Elaine (6 Ian').
Excalibur (ekskailbiir).

Finley (ftn'la).
Floyd (floid).
Fust (foost).

208

Grenoa (j6ii'o&).
Glaucus (glft'kGs).
Gutenberg (goo'tenbgrg).

Haarlem (har'lem).
Hercules (hSr'kulez).
Herculaiieum (h5r ku Wn6 uin).
Holyrood (hoi 'i rood) .

Iliad (il'Iad).
lolcus (i6l'kiis).
Ithaca (ith'aka).

Jaonssen (jaon'sen).
Jason (ja'son).
Jerusalem (je roo'saU m).
Jupiter (joo'piter).

Kentucky (k^ntuk'y).
Kippen (kip'p6n).

Lancelot (ISn'selot).

Macaire (macS-r').

Mayence (mayons').

Missouri (misoo'ri).

Monte Somma (mon'te sSm'ma)

Montargis (montarzhg').

Naples (na'p'lz).
Narsac (nars3,k').
Nassau (nSs'sa).
Neptune (ngp'tun).
Nydia (nid'ia).

Odyssey (6d1ssy).

Paris (pSrls).
Pelias (pell 'as).
Pelion (pe'lISn).
Phlegethon (flgg'ethon).
Pliny (plin'y).
Polyphemus (pol y fe'mus)
Pompeii (pompa'yg).
Portugal (pOr'tugal).
Provence (provons').

Roman (rC'mSn).
Russia (rush'a).

Saint Bavon (sant bav5n').
Shalott (shal6t').
Solon (so 'Ion).
Spiizbergen (spits bgrg'en).
Stabise (stSb'Ig).
Strasburg (straz'bSrg).
Syria (sir'Ia).

Thames (t?mz).
Thessaly (thgs'all).

Ulysses (ulis's6z).

Van Tassel (vintas^l).
Venetian (vene'shan).
Venice (v6n'Is).
Vesuvius ( ve su'v! tis) .

Wallace (w6Pas).
Westminster (west'minster).

Yadkin (yad'kin).

> u

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